Bittersweet poison
by kastiyana
Summary: He wasn't a saint and neither was Arthur, and yet he looked like a fallen angel. Could he save him from himself? Or would he fall too, addicted to his poison? - AU - RomanoxEngland - Mafia and drugs drama.
1. Primo capitolo

**Summary: **He wasn't a saint and neither was Arthur, and yet he looked like a fallen angel. Could he save him from himself? Or would he fall too, addicted to his poison? - AU - RomanoxEngland - Mafia and drugs drama.

This was supposed to be a oneshot, but then it was too extensive; then I couldn't decide on an ending, so, it's a 4-shot (I know that's not such a thing). I want to thank my girl July for being my "gamma reader" and "Blood Dark Sun" for being my beta. I blame her for every Engmano I write from now on.

English is not my first language but I tried so hard not to think as a Spanish speaker!

**¿Y por qué cresta escribo en inglés?** Porque en español no aprecian en el engmano, porque quiero practicar mi segunda lengua y porque me dio la gana.

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><p><strong>Bittersweet Poison<strong>

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><p><strong>Part I<strong>

"join the dance of the leftover

no one will ever take care us

no one really wanted to help us"

(Los prisioneros)

Gilbert was stumbling. It wasn't his fault really; carrying his unconscious friend had much to do with it. He knocked three times more, starting to get pissed off.

"Come on, Vargas! It's an emergency!" he yelled. After five minutes that appeared eternal to him, Feliciano opened the door, sleepy. Gilbert, without further ado, made his way into the house, throwing his friend on the couch. The Italian, seeing the blond in such a state, gasped and cried.

"Oh, _Dio mio_...what happened to him?"

"He had an overdose," said the albino, "with that heroin your brother sold to me. I can't take him to the hospital; they would interrogate me, and then what explanation could I give?"

"Oh no! Is he dead?" exclaimed Feliciano, seeing that the friend was not reacting to his constant poking.

"He's not dead, he's just too fucking wasted...Hey, listen, call your brother. He will surely have adrenaline or something for these cases."

"What the fuck is the albino potato doing in this house at this damned hour!" the brother yelled. He was standing in the middle of the stairs, with a frown, bed head, and a gesture that promised the pains of hell. And then suddenly he saw the moribund blond lying on his couch and his rage went even further. "And who the fuck is that junkie?"

* * *

><p>Lovino Vargas was the older brother's name. He was twenty-seven years old, ten of those working in the 'family business'; he wasn't proud of what he was but he certainly liked the power, the respect he obtained from it. He was very religious, so he had a ritual of donating part of his money to a good cause to clean it, and to clean himself. He knew it was wrong to sell this stuff; he knew things like heroin or cocaine could lead people to ruin and death.<p>

That was why he was so fucking angry about having this man on his couch, in his house in the middle of the night, the only time he could rest and get a little peace of mind.

"He's my friend, and he's like this because of the shit you sold me," Gilbert accused, as if he expected that his words would arouse some effect.

"Not my fucking problem," Lovino stated, and turned his back to his brother and the albino. "Take him to a hospital."

"I would, but then what would I say? It's heroin, not child's play like weed. What do I tell them when they ask me where I got this shit from?"

Lovino stopped on his way to his bedroom. The albino potato had a point. If this was a regular situation - and what he meant by that was an anonymous man - he could just solve it by shooting both of them and throwing their bodies into the ocean where no one would ever find them. Nobody cared about punk junkies anyway. But this was the albino potato, the macho potato's brother, and that one was his brother's boyfriend, even if he hated the idea.

"_Per favore fratello_, we cannot just let him die, it's Gilbert's friend and Gilbert is like my brother-in-law and..."

Fuck it all. He was screwed.

The brunet took a deep breath and started his 'rosary.'

"First of all I didn't sell you that shit! It was Antonio...Second: How many times do I need to tell you that the stuff I get is full quality? You can't always just apply the same doses you do when you use your cheap crap..."

"I know! I told him! And don't scold me! I'm not one of your men!"

"And you are so fucking lucky you're not, 'cause if you were and you caused me this trouble I would fill your body with lead!" Silence stood between both men at this statement. Lovino wasn't tall or muscled but he could be damn scary if he tried. Then, as he if he hadn't just been sending death threats seconds ago, he approached the unconscious man, checking his vital signs. Lovino was not proud of knowing how to deal with these issues, but when working in a field like this, overdoses, shootings, poisoning and car crashes were daily occurrences.

"He's not that bad," he stated, and then headed to his studio to find the suitcase with the things he needed for occasions like this one.

When Feliciano saw the size of the syringe, he looked as though he could faint right where he stood. Lovino, calm as a surgeon, set the things ready, put in the amount of adrenaline required and handed it to the albino, saying, "He's your friend, it's your duty."

The German looked at the big syringe in confusion. "And where do I put this?"

Lovino snorted a laugh and said sardonically, "You junkies are amazing. You can get all kinds of shit in your bodies and then not handle a shot of medicine." He opened the blond's jacket and raised his shirt, exposing his bare chest, pointing to the middle of it. "There, straight to his heart, soldier, and do it quickly, 'cause I'm fucking tired."

Feliciano fled from the room, screaming "Oh my God, they are going to kill him!"

Gilbert's hands trembled with indecision, like he could not decide when or how he was going to stab his friend with a motherfucking needle. Lovino started to get more and more pissed. He was surrounded by morons and pussies.

"Give me that!" he demanded. He took the syringe out of the albino hands, and then, with a heartless precision, stabbed the blond's chest with the huge needle. Just two seconds later, the body under his hands started to shake and, with a terrified scream, the blond opened his eyes. He stood up suddenly, pushed by an unnatural force and looked confused, alternating between the two men beside him and the syringe still sunk into him.

Lovino wasn't very much aware of this last fact. If he were, he would have recommended getting that needle out immediately. But he was somehow bewitched by those wild emerald eyes.

And then he was so glad he'd saved the junkie bastard's life.

* * *

><p>When Arthur applied the shot, straight to his veins, he felt a strong wave of pleasure. He couldn't describe it as an orgasm, 'cause it was beyond that. He was flying free and in that moment it didn't matter to be so lonely in this sodding country. The walls became so wide, tall and blue, like a false sky..."Blue skies, smiling at me, nothing but blue skies, do I see." Arthur laughed at the memory of that old song; his mother loved it, he missed being under her wing, her floral perfume. The blue sky around him became colorful, like someone had just vomited a rainbow and, just there, he saw the house where he grew up, the garden. It was so green; the scent of the fresh grass was intact, just as the smell of the Sunday meat pie. He moaned at that, unconsciously.<p>

He felt something grainy under his feet, like sand. Maybe that was 'cause the first time he'd danced with the white lady, he had been on the beach, and every sensation was so intense... feeling every grain of sand in every skin pore, so strong that every time he takes a new ride, he feels the same gritty sensation. Sometimes, if the dope is good enough, he can also be reminded of his former hallucinations, the time he got obsessed with the guitar sound of a Floyd song. The bass was multiplying with a sempiternal twang and he sang "Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun..." Now he was invaded by some old sensation of sand, guitars, flowers, colors... all mixing in a whole new symphony.

The sand grains became balloons, he was surrounded by them, and it was tingly and soft. He flew between those balloons but then, suddenly, he fell and felt so much despair... he was received by a crowd, like a rock star, he was being carried by all those people, all those hands around him, the fingers...the fingers felt so weird, like snakes or something worse: worms. They were sticky and wet, just like those sodding maggots he used to collect when he was little, and they were everywhere, in the room, in his skin, surrounding him, tickling his nausea, he was naked and under their control. He wanted to scream but no matter how much or how many times he forced his throat and lungs nothing came out of them but more silence; he was trapped by their swarming…

And then a beautiful color, hazel...

"Bloody hell!" He screamed as his body was pushed by an unnatural force, he stood up and ran a little; He had not even realized he'd been lying down. His eyes traveled downward to look at himself. His jacket was open and his shirt rolled up, and in the middle of his chest a huge syringe was sunk. He looked around to see Gilbert and some other man he never saw before and…

That! That was the first thing he'd seen when he'd woken up: a beautiful pair of hazel eyes. And they belonged to the brunet man seated next to the couch where surely he'd been lying before.

And, when he saw the handsome features facing him, he thought for a moment that he was still hallucinating.

* * *

><p>They looked at each other for a while. Gilbert had to clear his throat to remind them of his presence. They split their attention violently to face him.<p>

"How do you feel, Artie?" the albino potato asked his friend.

"Bloody fantastic," Arthur stated with a thick voice, still numb and dizzy.

So he was British; there was something very rebellious in the tone of his voice, in the way he stood, the way he wore those skintight jeans with those leather boots. He also had a leather collar with metallic pins, his blond hair was messy and had colorful dye stains, he had a piercing in one of his bushy eyebrows, another in his lower lip, an iron rod through his left ear and...

"You are the worst junkie i've ever met," the albino potato stated as he held his friend to avoid his fall.

"Don't mock me, you bleached git." To add more fury to his utterance he stuck out his pierced tongue.

"You need to eat something to stabilize yourself," Lovino pointed out. His brother Feliciano had just returned to the room to see what happened so he heard clearly. "Feliciano, go to the kitchen and get the pizza left from dinner."

The younger Italian obeyed, resigned. Gilbert turned his attention to the gangster, and said curiously, "I was under the impression you would kick us out just when we resurrected my blondie."

"I'm not your blondie," the British man snorted, and then he faced the brunet, adding, "and by the way, thank you. I was having a hell of a time there in Neverland."

There was a clatter of pots and dishes in the kitchen and then a squeal. Lovino thanked the distraction because the Englishman with his wild aura was making him feel strange.

"My stupid _fratello_, he can't do anything right by himself, Dammit." Lovino stood up and fled to the kitchen where Feliciano was trying to pick up the pans he had launched accidentally. The older brother shook his head in disapproval and put the leftover pizza in the oven.

The smaller of the Vargas' waited to be called on the mess he'd made in the kitchen. He even closed his eyes to receive the impact of his older's brother hysteria. He was infinitely surprised to not receive that impact. It seemed like Lovino wasn't himself as he silently went back to the living room where the two guests were sitting.

"Here," he said sharply, leaving the plate close to the Englishman.

"I want pizza, too," Gilbert complained, looking resentfully at the Italian.

"If you want some, then go and buy one, fucking bleached potato."

The Brit laughed so hard that he almost choked himself with an olive. Lovino smiled at that. He waited until the blond finished and then, with an unexpected politeness coming from a punk, Arthur thanked him. "That was delicious. Please, excuse any inconvenience I may have caused you."

Gilbert opened his eyes wide, turning to his friend, asking "Who are you and what the hell did you do with Arthur?"

Lovino didn't feel himself. Normally he would have shouted a bunch of insults at anyone who dared to speak to him in such a snobbish way. Instead, he ignored Gilbert's comment, scratched his arm and muttered, "It was nothing."

The Englishman winked at him in response, all flirty, before saying "So long." Gilbert followed him out.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" Lovino asked himself. He began to think he was too tired.

* * *

><p>Lovino disliked being present in places where people traded his "merchandise." That was Antonio, Martín &amp; Elizabeta's job; his was to manage his cheerful accounts in his office, to solve the problems that could arise in the shipments, to "settle disagreements" with other groups. And yet, there he was, arriving in the north of the city, in one of the pubs in his territory. He sat down, ordered a dry Martini and looked around, not knowing exactly for what, until he saw the same wild boy he'd met three days ago.<p>

He'd been looking everywhere. Lovino knew what 'the lad' was searching for. He sells "the thing" after all. The so-called Arthur seemed to have a nervous tic by the way his hands were shaking and squeezing each other with insistence.

He wondered where the hell Antonio or Martín were at this time. And then, as if summoned, the Argentinean appeared beside him with his trademark cocky smile.

"Hey there, big boss! Sales have been good today." The Italian rolled his eyes. If Martín loved something more that the sound of his own voice or staring at his own reflection, that was to show off his achievements, in anything.

"And it would be fucking better if you worried more about selling, and stopped talking for once," said the Italian, annoyed. Martín made a pout, resentful, and then faced where his boss was watching.

"Che! Boss, look at that blond, he looks all anguished...I assure you I could sell him all my shit at twice the Price."

"Stop right there!" Lovino ordered his subordinate who was just heading there. "I'll take care of this. You go and take charge of those girls."

Lovino knew that was the weak spot of the Argentinean. Martín wore his best conquering face. He went towards them and talked with his most exaggerated Latin accent. It never failed. Girls love accents.

Meanwhile, the Italian gave himself some encouragement before walking to the Englishman. He did not greet, he never knew how to be polite, never needed to be either. He collapsed on the chair next to him and waited for the boy to notice. Arthur looked distracted, almost desperate; Lovino knew those symptoms well, and that is why he felt a little sick to have new evidence of how needy the blond was.

"Hiya... aren't you Vargas? The big boss?" Finally, the punk was noticing him. Although, by the way he addressed him, Lovino could guess where the main interest was.

"You have a hell of a problem if you think you can ask something like that so directly."

"Well, I've been a whole bloody hour waiting for someone to 'take my order'; I must say I never expected to receive attention straight from the manager."

Lovino chuckled. No matter how long he'd been working in this field, he always was amused by the euphemism level displayed to talk about it. 'Sleeping with the fishes', 'Reaching a fair agreement to both parts', 'white horse', 'snowball', 'special-K', 'C', 'Coke', 'Dots' ... a world of invented words to describe moral destruction.

"And what are you looking for exactly?" the brunet asked stoically.

"Just a 'dime bag', the same the Spaniard sold us last time, I want to 'cook' something when I get home.

The Italian frowned. So the boy was into the hard stuff. He had suffered an overdose not long ago and now, just three days later he was looking for another ride.

"Che, I think you had enough for the entire week." Lovino folded his arms like when he was telling his subordinates, "If you dare to argue this, you'll get fucking shot." But Arthur wasn't one of his minions, so he didn't realize that.

"I decide when I have enough."

"And when's that gonna be? When you are six feet under?"

"Okay, no more snow, give me a bloody sticker," the Brit gave in, while searching in his pockets for money.

"Oh no. You are not getting any acid from me today."

Arthur stared at the "capo" in disbelief. Hands in his waist, wild defiant green eyes, so needy...

"You are a terrible businessman; you are supposed to sell to me without question!"

"I want to sell, not kill my clients, dammit. If you die I'll lose a client. You will not have any hard stuff from me today."

Arthur groaned in frustration. "Okay. Give me what you think is suitable for me, big boss." The addict was playing dirty, winking, smiling in a provocative way, playing with his tongue, showing that motherfucking piercing.

Lovino got flustered at this. Oh, how he would love to give something special to the wild blond. He calmed himself and offered, "I have 'Coke', just one line for you. You'll get wasted, and you'll go home, get it?"

"Yes, mom, whatever you want ," the Brit accepted playfully, although still pissed. He handed the money to 'the merchant', adding, "just give me the sodding line."

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><p>Lovino went back to the bar on Saturday. He convinced himself that it was just to watch out for his interests. If Antonio was wasting his time being himself, and Martín was more worried about picking up girls, maybe he should keep an eye on them. If he was looking around, it was only to monitor his employees. He was not searching for anyone in particular. The nerves in his stomach had no reason to be there; if he had to blame something for that, surely it was the Bloody Mary he ordered.<p>

The punk bastard appeared finally. In fact, he looked more like a pirate. The blond was staggering erratically with a beer bottle in his hand. He seemed to be insulting a bunch of guys. Lovino couldn't concentrate on the taste of his drink while watching the movements of 'the lad' who seemed determined to pick a quarrel. And he got one. One of the guys gave him a warning slam and just that was enough for the punk to jump on him with fists.

Lovino had to give some credit to the bastard: he was not a terrible fighter, but there were four of them against his slender figure and obviously he was way too drunk to stand up properly. The Italian convinced himself he wanted some action and intruded, hitting one of the guys in the nose. Now, watching them closely, he noticed they were giants, Slavs maybe. It had been a long time since his last street fight. His specialties were shootouts and surprise bomb attacks, but he couldn't care less. He was a gangster, a stud, the big boss after all.

The second thing that Lovino noticed was that the damn Vikings were pretty drunk too. With a few punches to the jaw, he left them numbed enough to grab Arthur's arm and drag him out of the bar.

Without worrying about it, he launched the blond into his Audi. The punk let out a complaint but soon relaxed on the car seat. He chuckled; everything seemed so bloody funny to him, especially the rabid expression of the Italian. Lovino expected anything but that proud attitude, so he scolded him. "Che, your idea of having fun is to get wasted or, if you can't, to get drunk? What a genius you are, bastard..."

"What can I say? I'm suffering a hell of a withdrawal 'cause some bloody dealer doesn't want to sell me his shit."

"Hey! I'm not a fucking dealer, dammit!"

"Of course not. You're the big boss, aren't you?"

A big silence settled again between them.

"And you keep messing in my bloody business," Arthur added with his rebel voice, looking out of the window, trying to be indifferent and deceptive.

"I didn't know that starting a fight in a pub was a business," the Italian snorted with an all-knowing smirk. He did not get an answer to that, so he got pissed off. What the hell did he care what the blond believed? He was just a fucking junkie with a terrible attitude, and he should just shoot his brains out and throw his body to the street dogs to eat him.

"Turn to the right. There is a parking lot," Arthur demanded suddenly, interrupting the course of his thoughts.

"For what?" asked the Italian, almost barking.

"Do you want a shag with me or not?"

Of course he wanted to. Lovino didn' t say a word, just turned his car into the parking lot.

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><p><strong>Note:<strong> I just realized you might get confused with Martín. He's a character we invented in Latin American fandom for Argentina; Argentineans use "Che" a lot too. I like the idea of Lovino bossing around Latin people.


	2. Secondo capitolo

**Note: **Remember when I said this was going to be a 4-shot... well, it's not anymore, I don't wanna give a number, but is going to be a little longer than that (I hope you don't mind)

Thanks again to July for reading this first and help me with some expressions and especially to Blood dark sun for editing , this wouldn't make sense without you (literally)

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><p><em>I want to know everything<em>

_I want to be everywhere_

_I want to fuck everyone in the world_

_I want to do something that matters_

(Nine Inch Nails - I Do Not Want This)

There was a parking lot indeed. It was dark, silent, and, above all things, lonely. Arthur let go of the seat belt and faced the brunet with his emerald eyes filled with lust. In the moment Lovino saw them, all the heat he'd felt before fighting in that pub concentrated in his lower body. He could have moaned in anticipation. And he wasn't even gay! This English bastard was a wizard, there was no other explanation.

Bewitched as he was, the Italian reached out a hand and slowly ran a finger over Arthur's cheek, trying to be gallant, as he always was with girls. He didn't know how to proceed with a boy, especially a rough "laddie" like this one. Arthur guessed somehow, because he grabbed the collar of the other's shirt to get him closer and stamped a fiery kiss on those manly lips.

"Oh, come on, love, don't be so careful, you stabbed me once, you can do it again," the English punk said provocatively.

And that was the end of Lovino's sanity.

Lovino had big hazel eyes, long eyelashes, and brown hair just like chocolate. He had a sexy sun-kissed skin color, he wasn't taller than the blonde, they were the same height, and his figure was slender but toned, just like Arthur liked. He opened the other man's shirt, almost ripping it. The brunet complained about how expensive the garment was, but the Brit couldn't care less. He made his way under those fine trousers. All together, that suit screamed that it cost thousands of dollars. How many junkies existed in New York City so that this guy could afford this fancy car and his elegant clothes?

Who cared. He deserved it all. The man was gorgeous, like a Greek god. Maybe a Latin one would be more accurate. Arthur needed so badly to feel some pleasure; he was an addict, a hedonist; he lived to stimulate his senses, to take them to the edge. They reclined the car seats before the Brit pushed himself closer to his companion to rub his hardness with the other's.

"Dammit, you are so..." muttered Lovino.

"Oh...and you haven't seen anything yet, love," the punk warned. He felt so aroused by the Italian's sounds of pleasure that he had the urge to give him more. So he did. He lowered the brunet's underwear with a deliberate slowness and then headed down to meet face to face that pounding head. It was a powerful vision, so he took it into his mouth without further ado. Lovino let out a loud gasp accompanied by some curses in Italian. Arthur began to hypothesize. Perhaps it was true that only a queer knew how to please a man properly. He was so proud of his slutty mouth.

He was excited about his work but he just didn't wanted to finish yet; so he moved away from it, got rid of the rest of his clothes and positioned himself on the gangster's lap. "I hope you have a rubber," he said.

"Can't you speak without using ridiculous slang, dammit?"

"No, mister fussy, I can't... have a condom or not?" the blond asked, straight to the point now.

"Yes, dammit, there!" the Italian pointed.

"So, you're carrying some bloody condoms in the glovebox? You are a sex fiend..."

Lovino was about to protest, but Arthur was able to silence him with a kiss as he opened the package, put the condom in the proper place and began to ride him. Lovino watched him with dilated pupils, as he would a predator. Arthur felt very full of himself at that look. And after that, a festival of groans and erratic movements, which became increasingly more intense. The Englishman was a wild animal running across the horizon Lovino offered. What did it matter if the Italian was a dangerous man? He had never worried about exposing his welfare in exchange for a sensation, and this was one of those well worth a shot in the head.

And so it felt like a shot. But it was like one of the other shots, those that make him lose the track of time and space. For a split second, Arthur thought that, if he could feel that glory every day, then he wouldn't need heroin to feel alive. But who was he trying to fool? No matter how splendid the sex was, or how much he wanted to do something useful with his life, at the end of the day he always craved stronger doses or a purer drug. He always wanted more.

After they'd finished, things were awkward. They dressed in an absurd silence and sat in their seats as if nothing had happened. Lovino broke the silence. "So... where do I take you?" he asked with a low serious voice.

"I have nowhere to go, so... if you want to kidnap me I won't put up any resistance."

* * *

><p>When Lovino arrived at the port he found Martín again flirting, this time with one of his coworkers. Manuel wasn't happy, or flattered, but the Argentinean was never aware of the futility of his charms. The Italian entered, hitting the flirty bastard in his nape. "Ouch! Boss!"<p>

"Don't let me even start with you, idiot...'cause I don't have the time!" shouted Lovino with a death glare. "The shipment has arrived?"

"Not yet," Manuel answered offering a light to his boss, who had just pulled out a cigar from his case.

"Excellent."

"Che, boss, can I have one..?

"No!" Lovino shouted, tired. One of these days he would wake up in a really bad mood and he was going to shoot the little bastard's head off.

Finally the guy they were waiting for arrived. They possessed a special warehouse to receive the merchandise, a sort of giant container which also served as an office. Antonio approached when the contact came with his suitcase; they all entered the container: Lovino, Antonio, Martín, Manuel, the guy with the order and Carlos. He was the newest member of Lovino's gang and Antonio recommended they include him in the missions so he could learn his "job."

Manuel knew well how to identify the purity of the dope. He had worked years in the illegal transfer of cocaine on the borders of Chile, Peru and Bolivia. So, like an expert, he tested the drug, taking a tip with one finger to bring it to his mouth. He decided it was fine and waved to his boss. Lovino took, from an inner pocket of his jacket, a leather envelope with a wad of cash. He put it on the table to close the deal.

Carlos followed the exchange with special attention, while keeping one hand hidden in a pocket and then... everything was fast. In a blink he had Martin and Antonio pointing to his head with their guns.

"Boss, I think we just found the rat." Martín looked like Christmas had just arrived while he was rubbing the barrel of his gun on the Cuban's forehead. Antonio slipped a hand in the man's pocket and found the phone.

"Look, he was sending a message to our dear friend Akil."

The Spaniard handed the phone to Lovino who checked the veracity of the information before saying with an ice-cold tone, "You already know what to do."

Martín didn't have to hear it twice, he just pulled the trigger and the Cuban's body fell heavily, leaving a little pool of blood on the ground. Lovino made a gesture of disgust. "Oh please...clean this mess before leaving," he ordered, and then went back to business with the merchant who was counting the money. "So, my friend, everything's there?"

* * *

><p>Lovino was Italian but he didn't remember a thing about being in Italy. He had been too young when they'd arrived in Brooklyn. His <em>nonno<em>started a _pizzeria;_ he and Feliciano went to school like every other boy does. Then, the old man got sick, he died and the teens were all alone. Lovino had had to take charge of the business. It was just a matter of time before he realized that the real money wasn't in selling pizza.

The African-American bastards were a fucking problem. They shared territory; Akil's gang sold cheaper and lighter shit: weed, ecstasy, and the hardest they had was paste. Lovino, leader of the Latin's gang, instead traded hard dope: Pure cocaine, heroin, LSD. They really shouldn't be competing but, even so, the rivalry existed. Lovino liked to think they were like animals in a territorial battle. Or worst, vultures fighting over the addict's decaying carrion.

Lovino felt still sleepy. The heat of Arthur's body resting next to him was both calming and arousing. That morning Antonio had come early to annoy him; Feliciano had opened the door and naively said to the Spaniard, "Lovino is still sleeping, but you can go and wake him up if is important."

Antonio had frozen in the door frame when he saw Lovino attentively watching the blond man lying beside him. "Shit!" screamed the Italian when he realized he was exposed. "Out, bastard!" he ordered. Arthur started to move and asked "What now?"

"It's nothing, go back to sleep," the Italian said, dressing himself the fastest he could and leaving the room quietly.

"What do you want?" the Italian asked, still pissed about the intrusion.

"It was nothing special," the Spaniard admitted with a strange voice. "Just wanted to tell you that someone offered me a whole shipment of absinthe, very cheap, and I thought you might be interested."

"I don't trade alcohol."

"Yeah, I know, but this is imported and ridiculously cheap. You could really make good money selling it. It would be just one time. Doesn't mean you have to change your field."

"Well, get me a sample or something and I'll think about it."

"That guy in your bed is one of my best clients," the Spanish bastard declared at last.

"So?"

"He's a junkie... a hardcore one."

"Tell me something I don't know," Lovino responded, quite upset.

"So, you don't care?"

"Of course I don't, it's not like he's my boyfriend or something, don't be silly," the Italian stated, with the coolest tone he knew.

"Those kind of people are dangerous."

How ironic! A dealer telling him, a Mafia boss, to be careful of an addict. Like he didn't know how a junkie could be. They were pathetic, needy, somehow suicidal, but not dangerous, not like he could be, at least.

"You are not my babysitter anymore, so you can just let me decide who I sleep with," Lovino declared, with his bossy tone.

"_Vale, tío_, (1) I just wanted make sure you knew," Antonio finished, grabbing his shoulder in that annoying fatherly way, and left.

Lovino sighed, tired. Antonio always had this obsession to treat him like a little boy. They had known each other for a long time. Almost ten years ago Antonio was hired by him to help with the business and, as the Spaniard was older, he always behaved like a mentor. But now Lovino was old too, so he didn't need any advice or adult supervision.

Of course he knew damn well that Arthur was an addict. He saw him sniffing the shit after all. Lovino never tried any of his merchandising, because he knew how drugs could destroy a person when they were swallowed by the vortex. How much had Arthur been ruined by it?

Lovino wasn't even gay. He'd never imagined to be like this with a man, but Arthur was something completely different from everything he knew. He was rough, barbarian, wild, and yet so fragile, beautiful and naive. Yes, he had to admit the Brit had a hell of a problem with drugs, so he wasn't exactly the best company he could get. But, who was he to judge him anyway?

"Fancy a cup of tea?" Arthur entered the kitchen, wearing just some black tight boxers.

"I don't drink that shit. Just because I bought you some leaves and a teakettle it doesn't mean that I'll have a Nancy tea party with you," he barked sharply.

"Well, for someone who doesn't like tea, you do a fantastic job savoring it from my mouth," Arthur grinned.

Lovino looked at him with that _'I'm going to kill you'_ face and concluded, "I want coffee." The Englishman didn't look happy about it but turned on the espresso machine anyway. It had been two weeks since that first time in the car. After that Lovino took him to his house, but just because Arthur had proved to be a pretty good lay. They had been screwing like bunnies for three days and the only thing the bastard had asked for was some cocaine to keep himself sane and stabilized; so basically, he was a cheap whore. At least that's how the Italian preferred to see it.

"Here you go, black, bitter and disgusting," said the Brit.

Lovino laughed at that, a little pissed, but he didn't complain. He had spent all his life being the grumpy rude bastard that insulted everyone and everything without reason. It was somehow refreshing to have someone who actually did that to him. Especially because Arthur had this elegant, sarcastic way of insulting him and being aggressive.

"You're pretty smart, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?" the blond inquired, surprised.

"Last night when you were high you started to recite something like poetry."

"I like to read poetry. Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Wilde... I like to read anything in my free time."

"Really?" the brunet asked in disbelief. "So... let me clarify. You actually enjoy reading that classy shit?" The blond nodded. "So why do you waste your life with drugs? You could study literature, do something useful with your life instead of just working your ass off to spend all your earnings poisoning your body."

"Well, I know all that, but what the hell! I didn't have the chance when I was younger so this is what I do with my life...I don't find any sense in it anyway."

"In what? Living?" the Italian asked, and the blond nodded in response. "If you stop trying to make life complicated, you would be happier."

"What's so wrong about asking yourself the meaning of your own existence?" Arthur protested.

"Life doesn't need to have sense, it's not a book, it's not a party, life is just this...living."

"You say that because it's convenient for you."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"What's the point of being a drug dealer? Are you doing a very important thing with your life?"

"I earn my own living and I take care of my brother, that's all." Lovino defended himself; he hated to be questioned about his lifestyle.

"One is supposed to leave some legacy, right?" Arthur stated with a serious expression.

"Dammit, boy! If you're worrying about being worthy of a Nobel prize I'm not surprised you're so fucking frustrated with your life."

"It's not about a Nobel prize. It's about bringing something to this world, some happiness."

"Well if you insist so much, maybe I should move to Italy and start a tomato farm or something!"

"That would be a nice start." The blond pouted and pulled a cigar out of his case. Lovino took his hand violently, forcing him to throw the cigar.

"Let me bring some happiness to your world, pretty boy," Lovino said playfully, aiming to forget about this whole heavy subject. Arthur roared, a little angry at the beginning, but then let a laugh escape from his mouth and from his eyes. The Englishman's eyes shone, so cheered as his lover kissed his neck and clavicle, that the Italian thought, for an instant, that maybe he could find the meaning of all the shit he went through day by day in a simple moment like this. In this kissing, this laugh and this fleeting moment of pleasure.

* * *

><p>It was nice to get free food, free drinks, to get to smoke these fancy Cuban cigars and to sleep between these soft cotton sheets. It was nice to have a firm arse to grab. Lovino was such a bloody good lay, he was handsome and feisty too, and Arthur liked it. And above all those things he liked to have free puffs, even if Lovino didn't let him use heroin. He was indeed a stingy little cunt.<p>

Arthur had arrived in America when he was fourteen but he'd never really adapted. He had gone to a public school in Jersey City but bounced there like Billy-no-mates for ages. He liked to read and write in his diary, nothing too sophisticated; he'd realized he was gay once he discovered himself daydreaming about Alfred, the silly blond muscled jock on the football team. He wasn't in love or anything; he just wanted to roger that American arse - very respectfully - and then move on. But those sodding Americans had realized he was a homo - he still doesn't know how they'd managed to do that when they were so stupid - and had started a campaign against him.

It wasn't that unexpected that he had tried weed at seventeen. He had no friends but he used to go out sometimes with this Scottish older guy who was very happy corrupting his virginal body and giving him 'treats' in exchange. Arthur still remembers his first smoke, just three puffs. He felt so free and chirpy that he wanted more. And more he got: his first blow of cocaine was at nineteen; his first acid when he was twenty, and his first injection at his twenty-three. At this point he was working as a waiter in a bar and living alone in some grotty apartment, so nobody gave a crap about him. He'd been doing that for a year now.

Arthur was perfectly aware that intravenous drugs are the rock bottom in this world, but he was losing the sensibility and he wanted more. Nothing was enough. He just wanted an intense sensation, one strong enough to kill him.

He took advantage of Lovino's absence to go to his office. There must be some dope there. He was craving heroin, so he rummaged through the drawers and compartments for something, anything, to calm himself. The more he thought about heroin, the more anxious he got. His hands were already shaking when he found that white powder. This was pure shit, not like that dark brownish junk they sold him. This should be strong enough. He looked for a spoon and a lighter; there must be a syringe in somewhere...

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with my dope?" Lovino yelled from the doorframe with a scary expression on his face. Arthur jumped, startled, and looked at him.

"Er... I was... " He had no excuse. "Come on! Just a little! Don't be such a scrooge!"

"No way in hell," Lovino stated, pushing him away from the merchandise. "Do you know what this is? This stuff might kill you if you try it...and God knows you don't know how to measure doses," he sighed, trying to calm himself, in vain. "I should have known you would be looking for this someday!"

"Hey, don't get this all wrong!" Arthur shouted. "I'm not here just for the drugs; I wouldn't lend you my arse like that so freely if I just cared about that. You don't even give me the dope I want anyway..."

"You're basically saying you like me regardless of the things I give you?" the brunet asked with that sardonic glance in his beautiful hazel eyes. The blond couldn't stand that disappointed expression on him. He had gotten that expression all his life from everybody, so, bugger this!

"Sod off... don't believe me if you don't want to. I don't need this." And he was about to leave the Italian's house for good when he felt a strong grip in his arm.

"So this is the deal," Lovino started, not caring about Arthur's desire to leave him, "if you want to keep this... whatever, you will drop this drug-hobby of yours, 'cause I refuse to screw a junkie."

"You didn't care about my addiction yesterday when you gave me a sniff before fucking my arse out," snorted the Brit, heated with a sudden rage.

"Well, that was yesterday, dammit!" The Italian felt silly bossing around Arthur like he did with his men. Arthur wasn't a lazy ass like Antonio or a cocky bastard like Martín. He was an intriguing, ironic little punk and that's why he wanted to keep him. Also, he certainly knew how to give a mind-blowing blowjob. So yeah, those were his reasons.

"Do you want to drop your addiction?" he asked with that scary face he used to wear in these situations. "Because if you don't want to be helped, there's nothing I can do for you."

"Nobody ever tried to do it," Arthur admitted, letting himself fall onto the couch.

"So it's settled then?" Lovino searched in his desk and found a little metallic box. "This is methadone. I'll give you a dose, 'cause I don't want to have you vomiting and shitting your pants with your withdrawal."

"Aw... you are such a darling," the blond chuckled.

"Shut up!"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

(1)"Vale, tío" In Spain it's like saying "Ok, dude"

Lovino is 27 (I think I mentioned) and Arthur 24, so, he's younger and makes sense to me in this story. Lovino is a tough Mafia boss and Arthur just a lost boy who overthinks everything too much. My crappy Britishness comes all from Spike (dat bleached vampire) from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and the actor is not even British, plus I'm just a Spanish speaker trying to make something acceptable, so yeah... it could be all wrong and I wouldn't notice.


	3. Terzo capitolo

O. K.  
>Just a little pin prick<br>There'll be no more AHHHH!  
>But you may feel a little sick.<br>Can you stand up?  
>I do believe its working. Good.<br>That'll keep you going through the show  
>Come on it's time to go.<p>

(Comfortably Numb - Pink Floyd)

* * *

><p>Gilbert ran across First Avenue. His hands in his pockets were struggling to hold the tiny paper bag he'd just bought from the Latin dude. He felt generous today; he'd heard from the guys that Arthur hadn't bought a single shot for almost two months. Maybe he was too poor, maybe he was sick or worse, <em>clean.<em> He felt for the guy. If Artie was clean for sure it wasn't because he wanted to, but because he didn't have the money to cover his needs. Probably he was fired again for not showing up at his job.

The albino entered the bar and walked between the people, looking around for his friend, until he saw the blond hair, strolling among the tables with a tray in his hands. The Brit served the drinks and then left the check at another table. Someone grabbed his ass as he walked by, and Arthur, instead of winking at him to get more tips, reacted violently. Gilbert, puzzled by that, went towards him to say hi and the Brit, without seeing him, hid in a corner to answer his phone.

The albino approached quietly, with the intention of scaring him, but the blond was concentrating on his little chat, grinning playfully as he said, "Don't worry, for me, it's not that late...No, I promise I won't buy anything nasty, _I'm so happy _withthe dope you give me...In a less than an hour...No, I'll go to the supermarket first, do you want something?...Ok, sorry, Mr. Fancy-Pants, for offering you my trinkets...Ha ha! See you later, love."

Finally, Arthur noticed him and with a strange gesture greeted him. "Gilbert, er. Hi, how have you been?"

"Me? Awesome! And you? You've disappeared, not awesome at all, kesesese."

"Disappeared?" the Englishman asked, a bit defensive. "I've been busy."

"Oh, that's what you call it now...come on." Gilbert leaned towards him, trying to intimidate him. "Tell me... who is he?"

"Who is he?" Arthur repeated, playing the fool as he walked away to take an order at a table full of students.

"Your new boy-toy," the albino stated with a cocky smile, right there, in front of the customers, making his friend blush in anger and embarrassment. The girls at the table giggled and the Englishman – a gentleman after all – pushed his friend away and smiled gently at the group, uttering, "Well hello, ladies. What can I offer you?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and waited for a half an hour until Arthur's shift was over. The blond was going out of the bar when the albino stopped him. The Brit looked like he was in a hurry, so his friend went straight to the point. "Hey, not so fast, I came for you 'cause I got some...you know," and he added with a whisper, "heroin."

Arthur widened his eyes in desire, looking like he was in the middle of some inner struggle, like he wanted to kick himself for wanting some dope. Gilbert knew the feeling well. A strong, painful guilt that made him think of his brother, and of the people who tried to help him, and it didn't matter how much he wanted to rehab. It was so hard not to feel tempted.

"From Vargas... the best."

* * *

><p>On hearing that name, Arthur felt a wave of guilt. And he pictured, so clearly, Lovino's expression, so glad when he'd promised to cooperate with the rehab. He had <em>loved<em> that face. The feeling of having somebody trusting him, like he was worthy of that trust. That was all the motivation he had needed to give it a try. He could not just betray Lovino by accepting Gilbert's proposal.

"Sorry, old chap, but I'll pass," he answered with a firm voice. Gilbert seemed disappointed as he put his hands into his pockets, looking at his shoes. They walked silently two streets to the subway station and Arthur announced, "I have to take the train." Gilbert nodded, listless.

"Where are you living now, anyway? I've been going to your place the last week, but you were never there."

"I didn't move; it's just that...I've been busy," Arthur responded, uncomfortable. He wasn't sure how Gilbert would react if he told him that he was having an affair with Lovino Vargas, the gangster, the big boss, the king of all kinds of dope in New York. "I'll call you later to meet you, or..."

"Don't worry, have fun, kesesese," Gilbert said as he waved his friend goodbye.

* * *

><p>Martin and Manuel had been waiting half an hour in the living room of the Vargas's residence to get the 'merchandise' they would sell on the north side of the city. They knew they couldn't rush the boss, couldn't just enter his office to see what he was doing instead of attending to them.<p>

At that moment, the front door of the residence opened, getting the attention of both gangsters. That guy Lovino was seeing, Arthur, came in carrying a grocery bag and greeted them normally, as if he was in his own place and perfectly aware of who they were and what they were doing. Suddenly, to the amazement of both men, the blond just intruded into the boss' office without even knocking.

Manuel opened let his jaw fall in disbelief and Martin started to grind his teeth, irritated, because he'd been sitting there very respectfully for thirty-five minutes, though he hated to wait. What's with that Englishman anyway? The Argentinean had had a better impression of him when he was his client but, as always, imperialist pigs(1) like him didn't want to get things in a fair way. They wanted it all by hook or by crook. Outside the room, both Latins heard the Brit's voice.

"Honey, I'm home."

"What are you doing here, bastard! You can't just come into my office like that!"

Martín smiled, proud of his boss, and started to pace in front of the door, pulling out his pistol. Just in case.

"Calm down, sadistic bitch," Manuel said. "If the boss was really disturbed by that guy he would probably have hit him already."

They fell silent again when they heard the Italian screaming,"I told you I don't drink tea! I don't fucking care if it's red, green, blue, or pink with turquoise polka dots!"

"Oh, there's not such a thing and you know it, and please, stop being so grouchy; you'll get wrinkles and I won't sleep with you anymore." Martín almost jumped at the Brit's response. Manuel, instead, had to laugh about it. Lovino must really like that white English ass, 'cause there was no way someone could speak to him like that without being corrected properly.

Now they heard some noisy scandal, as if they were running, a hard sound like they had just thrown a couple of things and, after that, silence. Martin and Manuel looked at each other, significantly.

"Che, Manu, and what about us? When are you going to let me...?" started the Argentinean.

"When you grow a vagina," Manuel replied with a gesture of disgust. That uncomfortable silence remained for minutes, during which the Latins – at Manuel's suggestion – just sat and waited.

The 'blondie' finally emerged from the office, more uncombed than ever, all flushed, with a silly grin on his face, his shirt still a bit rolled up. He carried the bag with a certain numbness and said cockily, "He's all yours now."

Martín's eyes followed him on the way out, while insulting him in his native language with something that meant "Damn English that takes advantage of the goodwill of my boss…I'll kill you, son of a bitch."

"Come on, fuckers! I don't have all damn day!" Lovino yelled, but somehow he looked really relaxed now. He was unrecognizable, with _that_ grin on his face and his frown gone.

* * *

><p>Hours later they were lying naked in Lovino's bed. Arthur snuggled against him happily as he recovered from the pleasant sensation that just had place in every part of his body. Lovino had his trademark scowl on his face but the Brit didn't even care about it anymore, until the Italian finally opened his mouth. "So Feliciano gave you the keys to our house."<p>

"Yes, he's such a sweetie. He believes I shouldn't be depending on your mood to know if I'm allowed to come in or freeze to death outside your front door," Arthur laughed, because he wasn't offended by Lovino's volatile character. Yet.

"I think you shouldn't have the keys to this house," the brunet stated.

"What?...Why?" the Englishman asked, sounding somehow hurt.

"Because I've known you just for two months, 'cause you are an addict, 'cause I am a drug-dealer-Mafia boss, and 'cause I don't trust anyone, least of all you."

"But you trust Antonio and those sodding Latins." The Brit now sounded irritated, like he was complaining. Like he felt he had _the right_ to complain.

"That's different. They are part of the 'family.'" The Italian explained this with an annoying tone, as if it was something obvious. Arthur sat on the bed and looked at his lover.

"Why can't we just forget about your job or my problem and see each other without those awful labels, just like two individuals?"

"Because we are not normal people. And even if you don't love the idea, our life choices determine the way we relate to each other...especially when we wouldn't even have met if it wasn't for 'my job' or 'your problem'...and I don't know why I have to give you all this explanation. It's my fucking house, and we're not a fucking couple anyways."

"You're heartless," Arthur spat, standing up and dressing himself quickly, furious. Lovino didn't understand a thing about his sudden reaction. Arthur, seeing this, confronted him and claimed, "You're always saying that this isn't a relationship; that I'm just a junkie you picked up in the garbage and that you only keep me by your side because of my blowjobs. But then you let me crawl into your bed every bloody night."

"Yeah, that's it! So?"

"So you're a bloody liar! You keep lying to yourself, treating me like I was nothing, when you know there's something between us," Arthur concluded, putting on his jacket and sneakers.

"Fuck off! Fuck you! And fuck this ridiculous lover's spat!"

And that's what Arthur did. He left, and Lovino slept by himself for the first time in more than two months. His bed suddenly seemed too big and too cold and he felt very stupid about his own weakness. And just for the record, it's not like he was missing the bastard or that he felt guilty for what he said. He just wanted that sexy white ass back in his bed. So he called him for dinner the next evening, and after being all cool and suave, Arthur accepted. And just because Lovino wanted to honor his Italian roots by being gallant, he went especially to an English restaurant to buy a special meal.

* * *

><p>They had just arrived at the 'Vargas manor,' as Ludwig called it in his mind. It wasn't really a manor, but it had a double standard. On the outside, it just seemed like a typical old building, but inside, one could find all kinds of luxuries: Expensive furniture, leather couches, huge paintings on the walls, and in the garage - which didn't look so elegant either - a small car collection with a Chrysler, an Audi, a Hummer truck and two Harley bikes.<p>

Ludwig wasn't a fool. Maybe Feliciano still believed his brother just sold pizzas and medicine, but he knew that if a guy had such a fortune and tried to hide it so hard in a crappy neighborhood, one could jump to the conclusion - without fear of failing -that he didn't have a very clean business.

"I'm very glad for Lovino. He's so happy now that he has a boyfriend," Feliciano expressed with a gentle smile on his face.

"Lovino? Has a boyfriend?" the German asked, surprised.

"Yes, he came one night, a month ago, with your brother. It was so late... almost three in the morning…and he was unconscious."

"Unconscious?" Ludwig asked, suspicious. A friend of his brother's was probably up to no good.

"Yes, and my fratello injected something to his heart with a huge syringe! I was so scared! I thought he was dying, ve~."

"And what happened?"

"He woke up. I didn't stay to see because I was afraid to see someone die in my living room," Feliciano said innocently as he took his boyfriend's hand to invite him into his bedroom.

"Hey, Feli, listen... I think that guy is an addict," the blond suggested, trying to be subtle about it.

"I know that he is, ve~." Ludwig was so surprised to hear this. The Italian continued, "But Lovino says that we have to drag him out of that, though I don't know how is one supposed to do that."

The German now was really worried about the whole subject. He couldn't believe Lovino had just invited in an addict, and worse, how he could keep him under the same roof as Feliciano. It was just wrong. Feliciano didn't need to be exposed to that kind of influence and danger.

"And what else do you know about this person?"

"Well... his name is Arthur Kirkland, and he is English, he's alone in the world 'cause his mother is dead and his father doesn't love him, at least that is what he says... and he reads poetry, so he knows lots of words, and he likes to be here cause my fratello cares about him and sometimes buys him nice things like the night he brought fish & chips for dinner, and Arthur was so happy, like a child."

"Feli, please," started the German with his tone of warning. "Don't get too close to him. Believe me, you don't want to get attached to an addict."

"But he's trying to rehab!"

"They never do it really," said Ludwig, remembering all those times his brother had promised to lay off the drugs, always disappointing him.

"But I want my Fratello to be happy," Feliciano expressed, sadly.

"Of course, that is good, if you want that, you can help him, but you have to be very careful."

* * *

><p>This wasn't a relationship. Lovino repeated this to himself so many times that the words lost their meaning. He was doing this just because he didn't want to be with a junkie, and because he didn't want a junkie near his brother either. Though if someone asked why he was taking all this trouble for Arthur, he would not know what to answer.<p>

The fish and chips night, as he called it internally, had been so amazing for both of them. Maybe because it had been a reconciliation, maybe because that one night Lovino had spent alone was enough for him to realize that maybe he liked the junkie just a little more than he should.

Arthur had been so happy when he saw this traditional British meal that Lovino could have sworn he was glowing. The brunet had said that he was just curious to try it, since Arthur talked so much about it. He'd said, "It's not because I wanted to please you, or anything."

The Englishman had said he never thought it was just to make him happy, but then, when they'd arrived in the bedroom, the blond cupped his face very carefully, muttered "Thank you," and kissed him gently. He had been so fucking sexy that night. He'd done such a good job licking every inch of Lovino's skin that the Italian wouldn't mind continually buying that, or tea, or scones. He would even build a Big Ben in the back yard to get that kind of attention again.

Arthur had announced after that, "I'm ready to drop it all." Lovino didn't get it immediately , so he added, "Ready to leave the dope once and for all...even the methadone, ready to face the withdrawal."

"Really?" Lovino asked, doubtful.

"Well, yes, at least if you want to help me some more, because I'm not sure I'm capable of doing it alone."

"Sure, bastard, I told you I would help you with this, and I'll do it." And he had said it because he was still riding the aftershock of that overwhelming orgasm.

But now, _now, _while he had Arthur in that drugless state, enclosed in a room hallucinating and vomiting, he wasn't sure if he had made the best choice. It was like that movie "The Exorcist." Arthur started the cold sweats. There was a light tremble in his body that became stronger, and then frantic. It was like the flu, but worse.

Lovino seriously thought that this was a punishment from God. It was God showing him the horrors their customers went through for consuming the crap he sold to get, unscrupulously, enriched.

And so, three days passed, in which Lovino had to make a great effort to not sedate him because of the pain Arthur suffered. This pain bothered him as if it was his own. What kind of sentimental fool was he becoming? He didn't know, but when the Englishman finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep, Lovino wiped his face and caressed his hair, sticky with sweat. He really hoped that after all of this, the nightmare was over.

* * *

><p>Arthur had never planned to give up on dope, because he didn't have anything better in his life. He never was a romantic; it never passed through his head to change, to try to be a better man for someone. But the way Lovino's kisses felt on Arthur's skin, how the brunet treated him even when they were not in bed... maybe it was worth the sacrifice.<p>

All these years he'd been in America, and all the years he did drugs, were stained with a veil of forgetfulness and uncertainty. Now, he was suddenly sober and he did not know who he was, where he was or where to go. Now that he was clean he was, more than ever, aware of his own existence, and that made him understand why he had never been afraid to be in danger of death. Life, when he was facing it, was something much more horrifying. And he had to learn to deal with it.

But not everything was so horrible. There still was Lovino. After he recovered from that horrible withdrawal, he was able to enter to the Italian's bed again. The brunet seemed surprised but Arthur assured him that he was okay.

"Please... I want you so badly," the Brit said and, with that statement, he'd just broken every defense of his... whatever they were.

He sat in front the Italian who slowly started to pull the Pink Floyd t-shirt over the blond's head. Arthur's arms had deep scars from the needle sticks. They probably would not go away for a long time. Maybe they never would. Lovino leaned down to kiss them and, as he did it, the Brit closed his eyes, so moved by the gesture that some tears came out, because nobody had ever treated him like he was someone valuable. After his mother had died nobody never even pretended to love him, not even his father. He wanted so badly to believe, even just for a night, that Lovino cared about him enough, that Lovino loved him, because maybe Arthur was already in love with the brunet at this point, after all this time.

"You have made me reborn," the blond whispered, because it was true, and he didn't mind right now if he sounded too sentimental.

He was born again, at twenty-four, in Lovino's bed, under his kisses, surrounded by soft cotton sheets. The whole world now is surrounded by those hazel eyes, the earth becomes wider at Lovino's steps, the air purer with his scent. Arthur was sober, and the sensations were better and somehow new. Every caress was so powerful, as if somebody had just thrown a spear to his nerves to shake them like no one had done before. Arthur concentrated on his lover's breath, on the wet path he left as his tongue traveled down from his neck, passing over his stomach and getting lost under his pants, getting him crazy with his tongue twirls around him, making his heart pound so fast with his new clean blood free of dope.

Finally, Lovino sunk into him, he danced on him, jumping above his walls, tearing them down. While the Italian marked the swing of both their pleasures, Arthur tried to get even closer, until they were sewn, tied ... confused in such a mixture that nobody could distinguish the boundaries between one and another man. And Lovino moaned; Arthur did it too, so hard that he thought he might faint .

It just took one last hand stroke, one last hit on that spot inside him, for Arthur to release himself, and that moment was a hurricane, sudden, but by no means brief. The pleasure remained a moment, just like a tornado that continues its rotating after the disaster. They both were exhausted.

Lovino held him close and whispered, "Holy fuck, that was so..."

"Bloody intense..."

The Italian nodded and cuddled with him, falling asleep almost immediately. His handsome features were so inspiring. Arthur could write thousands of verses, and even then, he wouldn't be close to making a proper tribute to him. To his hazel eyes, golden skin, chocolate hair, and his sensual deep voice.

If Lovino left his side, the stars in the sky would go out and Arthur would be unable to find his way again. What would become of the universe?

* * *

><p>(1) Martín refers to Arthur like that because there's an old hate Argentinians have of English people, because of the Falkland Islands. I'm sure that not everybody in that country thinks like that, but I thought it was a nice detail if Martín – an intolerant gangster - were reticent with Arthur just for being British, the same way he sees Lovino as family just for being Italian.<p>

Arthur is kinda poetic in my headcanon, so I tried to reflect that in here. Moar of this reflexive side of this angsty Arthur in the next chapter.


	4. Quarto capitolo

If you deny this  
>Then it's your fault<br>That God's in Crisis  
>He's over (...)<br>Every time I rise I see you falling  
>Can you find me space inside your bleeding heart<br>It falls apart  
>It falls apart<br>Falls apart

(Passive Aggressive - Placebo)

Martín looked everywhere as his boss entered the empty shed to begin the trading. Lovino, escorted by Antonio and Manuel, took at least twenty minutes to check the 'merchandise' and pay for it. It was almost two pounds of LCD in stickers. The Hollander who delivered it seemed to be in accordance when he finished his money-counting.

At this point, the Argentinean outside played with his pistol, more relaxed than watchful, so he didn't see Akil's men approaching him; they hit the Latin in his nape, making him collapse on the pavement. Manuel saw them as he went out of the shed and reacted in time, pulling out his gun to attack one of them and calling a warning to his boss. That guy didn't have time to fire before falling by the Latin's shot. But the other guy did. With precision, he aimed at Lovino, and if Antonio hadn't shot at him, deflecting his aim, the wound could have been deadly. The bullet hit Lovino anyway in his left thigh, making him scream and swear in pain. Antonio and Manuel looked everywhere for more of them without success.

"Quick, pick up the sassy bastard and let's get the hell out of here!" Lovino ordered. Manuel obeyed, taking Martín in his arms like a rag doll, and Antonio helped Lovino to walk to the car, putting him in the passenger seat. Just when Manuel threw Martin in the back seat, Antonio recklessly pressed the accelerator.

"Goddammit! Where the hell did they come from?"

"I don't know, Lovino... _¡Joder!_ (1), this is the first time they came right here to attack us!"

"It was because of the Cuban guy," Manuel explained, with a calm tone as he tried to wake up his friend, slapping his face repeatedly as he insulted him in Spanish. Finally, Martín jumped in surprise.

"_¡La puta madre!_ (2) Boss, we are under attack!" he screamed.

"A bit too late, bastard!" The Italian scolded him with a hint of pain in his voice.

"Oh, my. They hit you!" the Latin squealed with his scandalous drama gesture.

"Please, Manuel... just kill him already!" Lovino ordered, not really intending to be obeyed. Though Manuel for a second really liked the perspective of hitting the noisy blonde.

"So, you think they are taking revenge just for a random guy?" Antonio asked, not sure. "'Cause it seems a little excessive to attack Lovino so directly just for that."

"It's not like that...I think he just wanted an excuse to go after us and they just were lucky to hit Lovino; you know these guys, they like to play dirty and they get heated so easily." The Latin paused and then added to his boss, "You know they can't stand the idea of you earning more money in 'their territory.'"

"Come on!" Lovino yelled. "It's a fucking open market! It's not just theirs!"

"And then, they just go around telling everybody that they fight us because we sell dangerous stuff," Antonio said angrily. "Like selling pot and paste would make them a bunch of saints."

"I'm telling you, this will not stay like this," the Italian mumbled, leaning back on his seat, planning his revenge. He could always call Ivan and ask him for some explosives. An accidental explosion in one of Akil's locations would not be something rare. Or a gas leak; that happens to anyone. He could not just let that fucker send him some bullets and let him go without _correcting him_. Everything in _this world _was paid back with fire.

* * *

><p>When Arthur finally heard the door open he went downstairs rapidly, hoping to find Lovino and drag him to bed. But instead he found Martín opening the front door widely as he screamed, "No, no... this can't be, this is the worst! It hurts in my soul! It really does!"<p>

The Englishman almost fainted when he saw Lovino with his left leg tinted with blood, being carried by Manuel and Antonio. Arthur forgot about breathing for seconds, till he realized he was out of air.

"What in the bleeding hell happened?" he asked, almost as if he was scolding the gangsters.

"He was shot by some of Akil's men," Manuel explained as he sat Lovino in the couch.

"We have to take him to a hospital!" Arthur exclaimed, seeing that nobody seemed to have that intention.

"I don't go to fucking hospitals!" Lovino yelled. His mood was worse than usual. Not to blame him. Arthur would be yelling too if he had a bullet in his leg.

"Don't worry, I got a doctor," Antonio said to both of them to calm them down.

"What can I do for you?" Arthur asked, extremely worried, kneeling in front of him.

"Bring me one of those fucking absinthe bottles the tomato bastard made me buy!"

At that order, Arthur hurried and searched for the alcohol in one of the many cabinets of the Vargas residence. When he handed the bottle to his friend, Lovino opened it in a rush, and took a long sip, and spilled some of the liquid into his wound. He clenched his teeth to keep himself from shouting, and just a minute later the doctor arrived.

"I came as fast as I could," Ludwig said entering.

"He is the doctor?" Arthur asked in disbelief.

"Chigi! Where is Vitorio? I won't change the Family doctor for this bastard!"

"Vitorio wasn't answering his phone! I couldn't think of another person. At least Ludwig is someone we know..." the Spaniard apologized.

"I don't trust this macho potato!"

"Believe me, I'm less happy than you are," Ludwig stated as he pulled out his surgical instruments. "I assume you would not keep denying your real profession."

The hurt Italian grumbled, and then threatened the German. "I assume you didn't tell my brother about this."

"He's in my apartment now and I had to lie to him in order to come here and cover your issues..." Ludwig stated with a cold tone. "I hate lying to him but I would hate more to disturb him, he has enough with having you as a brother. I'm surprised he's such a nice boy."

"Hey! Don't treat him like that! He's hurt," Arthur rebuked the German.

"_¡Voy a matarte, pelotudo!"_ (3)- Martín threatened the German, pulling his gun out, immediately being grabbed by Antonio, Arthur and Manuel (who kept insulting him in Spanish to make him throw the pistol).

"Everybody out!" Lovino ordered and the four men obeyed, reluctantly.

They stayed in the living room, waiting. Arthur stood outside the office door where they were attending to Lovino, trying to hear any sound. Manuel sat on the couch while smoking compulsively. Antonio was clutching his head with both hands while he said his prayers, and Martín paced outside the door, beside Arthur.

Suddenly, they heard a painful cry. At this Arthur carried his hands to his mouth in a worried gesture and Martín began again his 'drama king' show.

"Oh, my boss! Why him? My Italian blood feels his pain..."

"Italian blood, my balls! You are as Sud-American as I am," Manuel replied irritated.

"Oh, no, you don't understand, in 'la Argentina' we feel 'Italia' as our second homeland. Lovino is like a father to me."

"I thought I was like a father to you," Antonio commented, amused.

"You don't understand, my relation with Lovino is different!" Martín continued, loud, gesturing exaggeratedly.

"God, someone please shoot this wanker! He acts like a sodding widow!" Arthur yelled, genuinely pissed off, wanting to have a gun to do it himself.

"Jealous, _mi amigo?_" asked Antonio with an annoying knowing-all grin in that tanned face. Manuel rolled his eyes, while muttering something which sounded like "Fuck this faggy drama."

"I'm not Lovino's boyfriend. I have no reason to be jealous," the Brit said with his cooler expression, facing the Spaniard's foxy glare; hoping he didn't know about his feelings.

"Oh, sure you don't," the tanned guy answered, still smiling in a very disturbing way.

Arthur was about to reply with some nasty comment, when Ludwig came out of the room and announced, "He is okay now, but he needs to rest."

Arthur felt like his soul had returned to his body, finally. The Latin gangsters – after a long discussion with the German – agreed to leave and let Lovino rest. They all went out together and Ludwig asked Arthur to take care of Lovino, promising to keep Feliciano busy at his place.

* * *

><p>When the night comes he doubts whether to go to Lovino's room or not. Obviously they won't have any action, so the brunet will ask what the hell he went there for. But he needs to see him; he doesn't care if they don't do a thing. Arthur enters silently. It is dark and Lovino is already asleep. He carefully goes in and sits on the bed trying to not be noticed. Lovino looks so beautiful when he's not conscious. What the Brit would not give to have him like that when he's awake: being pacific, smiling, relaxed; he could look at him all night and not feel bored at all.<p>

Arthur had the urge to write. Is there any word in English? Any adjective to describe the feeling he got every time he could steal moments like this? Or at least an adjective to characterize Lovino...Some word that means all in one: grand, aggressive, beautiful, stunning, dangerous, addictive; he should create that word. After all, words are created in a language driven by the speaker's needs. He had this need. Everything that involved Lovino was new and required to be named with a new term.

* * *

><p>Lovino was half-awake, half-sedated when he noticed the extra weight on the mattress. He gave some minutes to Arthur, just to figure out what was the Brit doing, but Arthur remained quiet, just looking at him insistently and making him nervous. He broke the atmosphere by mumbling, listless, "Sorry bastard, but today I think I'm not able to have any fun."<p>

"I'm not here for the sex," Arthur explained, somehow offended.

"No? So why are you here?"

"I just wanted to keep you company, but you are such a rude twat, always thinking the worst of me..."

The blond stood up and Lovino called, "Okay, okay... sorry, c'mere." He made a place on the bed. Arthur jumped onto the covers, dropping his shoes on the way. He looked afraid to get close to the brunet. Lovino guessed and said "Come on, I'm not made of glass, you can touch me a little if you want to."

Arthur nodded and raised the covers, putting his fingers on his left knee, a few inches close to the bandages. "It hurts?" he asked with a hint of fear in his voice.

"No, I'm a bit sedated... it wasn't that bad anyway," Lovino explained, trying to look tough, like the Italian-Mafia-stud he was.

"But you had a bullet sunk in your flesh!" Arthur exclaimed.

The brunet grinned and commented playfully, "You looked so ridiculously worried out there, like I was dying or something."

The Brit made an offended gesture and muttered, "Well, sorry for caring about you. The next time you get shot I'll go out and party."

Lovino snorted a laugh and, as he did, the effort made his wound hurt a little. He hissed in pain trying to keep himself from showing his reactions. Arthur noticed anyway and looked at him in that "motherly" way.

"Hey! Don't make that face. I'm okay."

"I know you're okay; you don't seem angry or depressed, and that's all that matters right now."

"As you said, I just had a bullet in my leg and all you care about is my mood? You are a weird bastard."

Arthur's expression became suddenly serious as he responded, "That's because I know there are wounds that are worse than getting a bullet or a shot of heroin in the veins."

"And what would that be?" Lovino asked sardonically.

"Words, they can create more beauty and do more harm...Don't laugh. People underestimate the power of words; they don't know that words are the thing that makes us different from animals. Words allow us to think, to imagine, to remember our past, to be happy and to suffer..."

"Said the poet..." Lovino joked.

"Shut up!" the blond pouted, again, starting to go away from the brunet.

"Hey! Don't go. I'm just thinking..." He got Arthur's attention and he continued, "If you like words so much you should study English, literature or whatever fuckery of the sort."

"Well, I don't know if I was cut out for college, but I'm looking for a real job in a library. I don't like being in bars anymore, surrounded with..."

"Yeah, I know." The Italian cut him off, because he knew his field very well.

"And the first thing I'll do if they hire me is bring you an Oxford Dictionary, so you learn that there are plenty of words to use instead of 'dammit,' 'bastard,' and all the 'fuck' derivations."

That was so insolent that Lovino felt the instantaneous attraction, even if there was no desire. So he grabbed the blond by his nape and kissed him softly, just to feel him. When he looked at the Brit, he seemed to be melting with his eyes closed and his lips half parted. Lovino caressed one of his clear, soft cheeks and, with embarrassment, stated, "Let's just sleep already."

* * *

><p>Eventually, Arthur found a job in a public library in Brooklyn. He started to dress in an old brown suit, looking like a nineteenth-century grandpa. His hair was still a mess, and most of his piercings he had in his head were gone. But not only did he look different. He was another person.<p>

When Lovino first saw Arthur, already awake from his overdose little coma, he remembered that look in his eyes. He was somehow lost, hopeless, and the only smile he had was some sarcastic grin; the same he wore when he got drugs or when he was trying to seduce him. That smile was the product of just one sudden moment of pleasure and after that it faded into a sad look. What had tortured Arthur so much back then? Was it over now that he was clean or he was just pretending to be better? Lovino didn't know much about him to just come to a conclusion.

Arthur had sandy blond hair, bushy eyebrows, emerald-bright eyes and a mole close to his bellybutton, which Lovino found very arousing to see. He was pale and skinny, though not as much now as he had been three months ago when he was still a hard addict. He was English, probably from London as he spoke a lot of it, but he wasn't sure of that either, he never asked. He didn't want to appear too interested, even if he was.

The main problem here was that he was working all day like a regular person and Lovino had needs still. When Arthur was tramping in from nowhere it was convenient for both of them, because Lovino didn't have a routine, so they could fool around whenever they wanted. But now Lovino was busy when Arthur was free and they almost didn't touch each other more than twice or three times a week. They were behaving just like a fucking old marriage and that was beyond ridiculous 'cause they were nothing. Lovino kept saying that to himself anyway.

He watched the clock one more time, still four o'clock. The library closed at seven. He should just put a bomb there and "_arrivederci biblioteca_." But he gave a second thought to it. Arthur seemed to love his job so maybe it wasn't a good idea.

This house was so silent without his _fratello_ or the English bastard. Feliciano was in college, so it was just him, and Antonio pacing in the living room to protect him. His thoughts were interrupted by the Spaniard who knocked on the door, announcing, "Natalia is here with your order."

Lovino nodded, meaning 'Let her in.'

The Russian blonde entered, all dressed in black, with a huge suitcase in her right hand. "Hello, loverboy," she greeted with a cold smile. Lovino made some gallant gesture to tell her to sit. Natalia Braginsky was as beautiful as she was crazy and sadistic. Her family was into the guns and explosives business. Lovino was one of their best clients so the Italian didn't know if it was that or his natural charm that pushed the woman into seducing him for the first time long time ago. Maybe it was to keep him as a client, or because she found him attractive. Maybe – and this was the most likely option – she was always trying to screw him just because she liked to imagine he was Ivan, her older brother, as crazy as it sounds.

"_Ciao, bella,_" he responded with a cocky smile, taking her hands and kissing her fingers. Her cold gesture mutated into that warm expression she put on at receiving that kind of attention.

"Here you go." She started opening the case and showing him the guns. "The 9mm you asked for, incendiary devices, a Heckler & Koch MP5." She showed him the pieces to make him sure everything was there. Lovino was always fascinated by the way this woman dealt with guns so easily, like they were babies or puppies. She was so different from Arthur. He only knew how to deal with words and the most of the time he had a hard time doing it, feeling sad or angry about a novel. He was so sensitive that he hurt himself, and yet he preferred to be like that. He loved the hard way.

Why the hell was he thinking of Arthur at a moment like this? Lovino wanted to slap himself. Natalia kept showing him her 'merchandise' and as he found everything was alright, he paid her, still a little upset with himself. The blonde saved the money in one of the inner pockets of her coat, left on a wall hanger, and then approached him, sinuously, like a cat.

"Have you missed me?" she asked, coldly, as usual. She had the same voice as ever but somehow it seemed more aggressive now, more rough, but not in a sexy way.

'What's wrong with me?' Lovino scolded himself, alarmed; he could not be thinking of the Brit bastard while having a beautiful Russian blonde sitting on his desk ready for anything. "Of course I did." He lied.

Natalia looked so elegant with her black clothes on, but he knew how vulgar could she be. He _should_ be aroused by that. The young woman got closer to him. Lovino obliged himself to respond and kissed her, his conscience driving him to the contact, savoring the way their lips moved. So different. He wasn't used to this anymore, being with a woman. With Arthur things were different because they were both men; _Arthur was a man_ and that's why everything was so intense. He didn't need to restrain his urges or his impetus with him, and even if he did, Arthur would ask him to be harder.

Lovino thought about him while undressing Natalia. Mechanically removing her blouse, the skirt, the lace tights. He tried to avoid her long hair or her breasts that reminded him that she was her and not _him._ Lovino felt his leg stinging. He hissed silently and she, noticing, muttered, "Just sit." He obeyed, helping her to remove his clothes; Natalia threw every garment away carelessly and looked for a condom in the box where she knew he saved them.

When Arthur put a condom on him, he was very ceremonious about it. He knelt in front of him, teasing him with his hands and then used his mouth to cover him. The whole act was part of making him crazy. The Brit didn't have a clue of how much power he had in that moment. Lovino was so under the blond's will that he could easily have said something stupidly cheesy. Luckily he never did.

Natalia instead just put the damn rubber and sat on top and, without glory, started to ride him. She wasn't fat; in fact she was slender as a sylph, but her weight in his hurt thigh was killing him. This is not how sex should feel; maybe this was the price he had to pay for being a sinner. For doing it in the wrong way with the wrong person.

Then... Why, if it was wrong, did everything feel better with Arthur?

The Russian's skin was soft, her figure curvy, her crotch wet, and though she was demanding and nasty, she wasn't the lover he was used to. Arthur was rough, but not vulgar. He liked Lovino to use his strength but he secretly loved to be caressed gently too; when Lovino kissed his eyelids or his neck, Arthur moaned faintly, clinging to his back, and ran his long cold fingers through the dark hair. He could not expect such adoration from Natalia; much less to hear the elaborate phrases that sometimes the Englishman said in the middle of his delirium. Yet, he missed that and, ignoring all of it now, he concentrated so hard to make her come, and in coming himself, even if there was no pleasure in it. He obliged himself into an orgasm. He had to man up and forget about this silly obsession with that British bastard.

When they finished, she just got dressed in a rush and uttered a dry goodbye. Lovino let himself rest on his chair, still naked. Trying not to think so much about what he had done. Thinking about his acts wasn't his area and all this sudden regret was surely a bad habit he had picked up from Arthur. Just like all the others.

* * *

><p>At the time when Arthur arrived at the Vargas residence, nothing made him believe the storm was coming. He opened the door with the keys – because Lovino had given them to him anyway - and ran happily to the office, wearing his old brown suit, trying to fix his hair a little on his way, carrying a bag with groceries: Various kinds of tea, scones, and a tomato soup from the restaurant Lovino liked. When he entered <em>the fort,<em> the first thing he noticed was that Lovino was not there. He put the bag on the desk and looked around, wondering where the Italian could be. The second thing catching his attention was the silver earring lying carelessly on the floor. Arthur raised it curiously. It was _very feminine_, a flower with a zircon, maybe a diamond. He wouldn't know. What was a thing like this doing on the floor? It was almost like somebody _forgot it_.

Arthur thought about the possibilities and immediately dissipated the idea from his head. But now he paid more attention... there was a strong floral perfume in the air. And now that he gave a better look, the office was a mess, just the kind of mess it was when he and Lovino...but that couldn't be. Because he was working and just the idea of that happening in that office implied that Lovino was with somebody else. Maybe it was just Antonio or that Argentinean playboy bringing some random hooker home. A hooker with fancy jewelry…to fuck her on...Lovino's desk? That was surreal.

Finally his sight ran across the floor to find Lovino's underwear right under the desk chair. He knew very well those silky boxers. He'd been more than three months knowing them and he remembered exactly the size, texture and colors of every one of them.

It wasn't until that moment that he realized that only _the boss_ could have allowed himself to have such activities in this place. The pain settled in his stomach like a thousand knives. What was the point of being clean or sober if Lovino could not keep a simple promise to him? Even though he had never promised anything. Lovino was always clear about the whole: '_we are nothing and you are just a good lay._' What a fool he was.

Arthur, with his hands shaking, sought in the drawers for something, anything that could make him feel alive again. He found it, so he took a spoon and put some random amount in one of these special little bags Lovino used to deliver his products. After that he ran like hell, like nothing mattered anymore. Because in fact, that's how things were now.

* * *

><p>Lovino went out of the bathroom half dressed. The Spaniard was waiting with a nasty grin on his face. The Italian looked down to his feet trying to figure out what to tell him. Not that he needed to tell him, the bastard must heard everything from where he was standing. Antonio seemed to be enjoying the powerful feeling of being 'the-older-brother-who-knows-best' again . Especially because he liked to witness everything and then gloat and rub it in the Italian's face. Just like he did when entering to the office to find Lovino putting his pants on so fast. It was like discovering a little brother in the middle of a hand job.<p>

"So... let me get this clear." Fernandez started with the amusement printed in his voice. "This ritual with that girl is part of the payment agreement? 'Cause you know I could make the sacrifice for you if you are wounded." The younger man dedicated him a deathly glare, which of course Antonio ignored. "But what can we do to save you from your duty! You are such a sexy stud, everyone is throwing themselves at you! You're going to die from all this sex!"

"Chigi! Can't you just let it be?" Lovino sounded tired, or worse, penitent. "It's weird that something that in a moment seemed such a good idea now is making me feel like a dick."

A heavy silence descended suddenly and the Spaniard's simile faded. Now he had this serious grimace and Lovino really felt like he was talking to his grandpa for a second.

"Really? That's how the things are now?" The Italian nodded, feeling beyond stupid and obvious. Antonio made a pause to thing and recommended "Man! If you feel so guilty about it I think you should forget about this issue and never mention it...at least not to Arthur."

"I know, it's just that he's so fucking honest; I'll feel like shit lying to him."

"But you have to do it, and you will...Look." Antonio went serious. "You like this guy a lot; I know you do, even if you are not ready to admit it yet. So he is a man, and so what? You should be more worried about the fact he was an addict, but you fixed him. So stop this nonsense and be easy with yourself for once."

The Italian knew his friend was right, but it was hard to admit. "Well, I'm gonna clean the office before he comes home." He went out of his room, already dressed in a clean gray suit.

"I'll help," the Spaniard offered, following him. The first thing they noticed was the open door. Then a bag with groceries on the desk: it contained scones, tea and a tomato soup from the deli Lovino liked so much. Just seeing that was enough to inform them that they'd come too late to clean up the evidence. But things were even worse than they had imagined.

Because the drawer with the pure dope was open and that could only mean one thing.

"Shit!" Lovino growled, trying to run out of his house just in case Arthur were near still; he went back inside, dragging his hurt leg. "He's gone," he stated, pointing out the obvious. Antonio called several times from different phones but the result was always the same. Arthur's phone was off; twenty grams of drug were missing and that meant a hell of a lot of trouble.

* * *

><p>(1) ¡Joder! - It means "Fuck!" in Spanish.<p>

(2) ¡La puta madre! - It's like saying "slutty mother" in Argentina all insults are about how slutty is a sister or a mother, or about their private parts.

(3) ¡Voy a matarte, pelotudo! = I'm going to kill you, bastard!

This is the moment where I allow you all to lapidate Lovino for being such a...

I know the chapter is longer. I don't know how could I think this could be a oneshot xD . This damn chapter was hard to writte, and it was edited thousands of times and my beta's patience is infinite... I'm such a bootlicker and I regret nothing

If someone is curious about Martìn or Manuel, in deviantart you can find tons of fanarts about them. They are not my OC's but products of Latin fandom. Argentineans are famous for being arrogant and Chileans for being hateful, they are a funny combination.

**To the spanish speakers:**Uy gente! Gracias por darse el trabajo de leerme en segunda lengua, de verdad, que lindo es ver rw de la gente del fandom español. En especial porque yo estaba absolutamente convencida de que a ninguno le interesaría leer un engmano Si les complica dejen mensajes en español no más, así le damos un ambiente más pluralista a este cuento.


	5. Capitolo della lunga attesa

**Note**: Sorry for taking two weeks! but this one was hard to write. And thanks to Blooddarksun for helping me with the mess. The next chapter will be in two weeks i thinkg, because is a little hard for me to write faster now with college and everything... hope you understand.

**Spanish fandom people**: Pucha, me demoré harto esta vez, pero la U me tiene medio podrida. Igual agradezco que sigan leyendo y bueno que comenten en cualquier lengua que sea de su preferencia. Juro no tardarme más de dos semanas en la próxima actu.

* * *

><p>No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;<p>

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

T.S. Eliot - **The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock**

* * *

><p>Lovino smoked a cigar, slowly, looking at the ashes as they fell in the ashtray, then taking another puff. Antonio looked desperately at his friend. It had been three days since Arthur had disappeared, and they both know how worried Lovino was, but he preferred playing the cool act. The 'it's all good; I don't care where the junkie bastard is' act.<p>

Manuel had commented to Antonio that the boss was acting weird and that it must be something really serious, 'cause it was very noticeable. It was so obvious that even Martín had noticed, and that was a lot to say, because Martín lived with his head buried in his own bellybutton. That was why the Spaniard was now sitting in front of Lovino. Because they were more than coworkers. They were family at this point, and when a member of the family is hurt all the other members resent it.

"And...how are you now?" he asked. The Italian glared at him with disdain as he plastered the cigar in the ashtray.

"I'm fucking incredible...never better," the gangster answered with a cold tone, so rehearsed that if Antonio didn't know him so well he would believe it. That wasn't the case, so he leaned closer to his friend. He asked again, very carefully. "Lovi. Have you even tried to find him?"

"Of course I tried, what do you think? That I haven't called the bastard? He stole my dope! Nobody steals from me and leaves so peacefully."

Antonio sighed, tired. Lovino was a stubborn little guy. The Spanish man remembered when he had been that age and he had been so proud, too. He had been so in love with Françoise, that French girl he had met in Barcelona. But she was so free, and he was so jealous that he couldn't stand to see her talking, smiling or even looking in the direction of another guy. Now, six years later, he thought about her almost every day and his old pride was just an old memory, like her kisses. He hoped that Lovino was capable of getting over his pride, or otherwise he would regret it for a long time.

* * *

><p>Lovino had to call almost ten times to realize Arthur wasn't answering the phone. The first message was planned, he wanted to sound diplomatic and mature, but in the second, the signal to leave the message sounded and he was possessed by 'himself,' spitting, "Come on! Don't be such a dramatic fucker and answer the damn phone!"<p>

When it was over, he did a great job convincing himself that he had acted well. And he continued his chores. Three hours later he picked up the phone again. Patience was not one of his virtues (if he even had any). "Don't make a big show of this; we said this was no strings attached, pick the phone up so we can talk about it."

And, with that, he tried to forget about the whole subject. Then, again, his patience ran out and he tried again. "You know what? I don't need this shit, I have no feelings for you anyway!" His rabid voice bounced between the walls of the office. The Italian gave it a second thought and called again, much more calm. "Okay, that was a little harsh to say…just call me back?"

And he went to sleep that night in the middle of upheavals and expectations, feeling his queen-sized bed colder and longer than ever. When he finally got up in the morning, he picked up the phone again to give it a try. "Arthur, come on, answer the phone. I do care about you. I... er... I... dammit! I miss you, bastard."

This was ridiculous, Lovino said to himself, and finally decided to go to Arthur's workplace. Maybe the Brit was staying with another guy, with Gilbert even, and was still in a circle he knew. When the owner of the library told him, "He resigned with a phone call two days ago; he said that he was not coming back," Lovino's face must have represented all kinds of worries and confusion, because the man asked if he was okay. The Italian nodded and left politely.

The next step was going to those shitty bars looking for him. If he was doing drugs again he would be there, and if not, the albino potato surely was there and _he had to know_. Arthur wasn't there either but the German junkie wasn't hard to find. Lovino searched in the second bar he visited that night, and he found Martin talking to the albino bastard. Lovino approached violently and grabbed the junkie by his arm.

"You have to tell, now where the hell is Arthur?" He was trying to sound intimidating; he put a hand in his pocket just to make him believe he was carrying a pistol.

The German paled even more – if that was that possible – and muttered, almost stuttering, "I haven't seen him in days. I thought he lived with his new boyfriend or something...He owes you money? Hey...easy, I can pay you part of it, but please don't go all gangster on him...Hey, Lovino!"

The Italian didn't stay to hear the rest. So, the albino potato didn't even know about his relationship with Arthur. Arthur had fulfilled his promise to keep the discretion about whatever they had. And, what now? He had not a single clue of where to start to look for him. Lovino racked his brains thinking and suddenly remembered something.

* * *

><p>Running to his bedroom in a hurry, he scared his brother, who was casually going downstairs with his painting supplies. "Veee~, What is wrong, fratello? Are you alright?"<p>

The older didn't answer. He just entered the room and picked up one of the salary documents that Arthur had left in the night table drawer. "I am now," he answered to Feliciano, who went back to the second floor, worried for him.

The younger Italian did not understand his brother's crazy attitude over the last week, but he said, "Okay...call me if you need something," and went to class.

Lovino, looking at that paper, was impressed with the low payment that a regular worker could have – in comparison with his own earnings – and then he noted the location and called to his subordinate and best friend, "Antonio! Let's go for a little excursion."

* * *

><p>When they finally arrived at the crappy duplex in West New York, Lovino understood why Arthur had so much fun singing "Mile End" (1) in the shower. But even if the Italian tried to picture himself in the situation and think - like Arthur surely did - that it was fun to laugh at his own precarious lifestyle, he still thought that it wasn't funny.<p>

Lovino went to speak with the landlady, to ask which of these rooms was Arthur's. The old lady frowned at that name. Lovino thought this was normal. Probably she knew he was an addict and possibly he used to make a ruckus when he got home late at night all wasted. "That young man hasn't appeared here in weeks!" she claimed. Lovino looked at his friend in surprise but then remembered that Arthur had been in his house all the time.

"He owes me two months of rent and he has not deigned to make a call or leave a message saying if he is coming back or not." Saying this, she picked a set of keys out of her apron pocket and guided them to the third floor. She opened the door, and of course...the smelly mess.

Lovino was perfectly aware that he was a spoiled bastard, used to living in the big house, with the nice clean air. This room was a disaster. The bed was just an old mattress on the floor. The room also had a small fridge, probably empty, or filled with decomposed food; ashtrays, empty bottles of beer and rum, a dirty pipe and, surprisingly, a big – and clean - shelf.

That special piece of furniture had in it a full collection of CDs: bands like The Velvet Underground, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Clash, Bauhaus, and, of course, Sex Pistols and Pink Floyd. It was curious, as everything in that room was a mess except for the meticulous order in the organization of the records and the books. He didn't have many clothes either, but he had a whole damn personal library, lots of books and some movies.

Lovino read the list of authors ordered alphabetically, some of them unknown for him and some of them familiar: Shakespeare, Wilde, Byron, T., Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Paul Celan, Italo Calvino... This one was Italian? It sounded so. Lovino took this one in his hands and opened the book. _Invisible Cities_. It had notes in all the margins, and several quotes were underlined. Arthur seemed to have a very special relationship with his books.

"You can't take his belongings until you pay me what he owes me."

Lovino woke up from his concentration and ordered Antonio, "Antonio! Take all of this to the truck." The old lady was about to complain when Lovino handed her two grand. "I hope this is enough," he said with that threatening tone. The woman counted the money and nodded. In the meantime, Antonio grabbed the records and put them in a huge plastic bag she brought for him. She was very gentle now that she was paid and content. What a disgusting human being.

After cleaning the room of every article of clothing, every book, record, and piece of paper that they could find, both Latins went back to the Italian's home.

* * *

><p>Once he was alone with all those things in his office, he started a careful examination of every object. It was obvious that Arthur had left without stopping by his 'house' to pick up some clothes or luggage. He had actually abandoned his books and records. Lovino started to worry about this, because, if somebody is capable of building a shrine to these things in the middle of that mess, it is because those things were important to him. So, what had Arthur been thinking when he left? Was he even thinking? Lovino didn't even dare to answer that last thought.<p>

He looked in one of the plastic bags. Some punk clothes, the old ragged jeans, the leather boots, and several T-shirts, four of them of Pink Floyd, the others with random bands or just some crazy designs made with what appeared to be ink. In the bottom of the bag was a wood box. It didn't have a lock on it, but Lovino knew, somehow, that it was private. He opened it and found papers, an envelope, and an old notebook.

This one grabbed his attention the most even if it was dirty and messy, the leaves wrinkled and with stains of coffee – maybe beer – even cigarette burns. What was this? Lovino looked on some pages and saw some orphan lines; some of them verses, others with long paragraphs. In some pages the handwriting was so confusing that it was impossible to figure out what it said. Lovino didn't like to read. He just forced himself to read the newspaper in the morning and that was all; but he felt this was important. So he started on the first page.

* * *

><p><em>15 March, 2009<em>

_Mom bought me this notebook when she still could walk out of her bed. I didn't open it until now because it reminded me that she's not here anymore. Everything in that house was a constant reminder and that's why I left. _

_Some April Friday._

_Scott invited me to his apartment.__ I don't want to go really, but he has some weed so... But just for the record, I want to make clear that is not just the weed what it calls me. _I like to imagine my _father blowing his stack, thinking of his faggy son s__crewing some random Scottish guy just to get something to smoke. __What a bloody bastard. I love to think about pissing him off._

…_..._

_Listening to Echoes while being high is so bloody amazing._

_May 14th_

_What a bloody junkie I am. When I started writing this the idea was to have a register of my experience and my thoughts. Something like Oscar Wilde's "De Profundis." Of course I'm not Wilde, and I'll never be. I'm just some jester, a bad excuse of a writer who can't take a single step by himself. _

_Instead of some bloody masterpiece, what do I have? Some decadent register of my own rotting._

_It's so embarrassing to read myself and see that sometimes I don't know who I am. Who is this man writing in such a state? "I should help him," I think, but then I feel so weak, I think about her, I remember she is not here anymore and I prefer to get lost with this character again. And I become the guy from the diary, I get into that state, I write with his voice and get to understand him._

_Who am I to judge myself?_

* * *

><p>Lovino read several months of incoherence. Some of those pages were really depressing, some very rebellious, and a few tinted with an unusual lucidity. It was like meeting tens of Arthurs. Which of them was the real one? He left the diary for another time; he wasn't obsessed or anything.<p>

A couple hours later, he found himself holding the notebook in his hands again. Pages going on and on, until he found something interesting.

* * *

><p><em>September 3rd , 2011<em>

_Today (or yesterday... it's all relative) I was about to die. I got a strong shot and it knocked me down. That could have been the end of all of it. All this waking up at noon to eat some rubbish, buying dope from that Argentinean bastard, going to work, earning a misery, get a shot or a sniff, go to sleep. All over again, infinitely. _

_But in that moment, something violent made me wake up and All I remember was a beautiful vision, a hazel-eyed man, looking at me . He was like a dark angel. He looked fierce, strong and dangerous._

_But of course I will never see him again so, what's the point of thinking about it? All the beautiful things fade too fast: childhood, and orgasm, an ice cream, my mother...Where do all these good things go? Surely to a place where I will never be._

_I DON'T KNOW WHAT BLOODY DAY IT IS!_

_Remember this dark angel? Well, I saw him again. He's a bloody dealer and doesn't want to sell me his shit. I don't think of myself as someone especially attractive but I think this guy fancies me and that's why he is trying to exasperate me._

_I want dope, an aspirin, a suppository, anything!_

_Bugger!_

_Someday (I don't know when)._

_Do you know the feeling of having a hangover? That disgust in your stomach, that constant pain in every part of your body, being uncomfortable with your own skin. That irrational thirst that can't be calm or satisfied with anything. That's what it feels being without dope. And it's killing me._

_Would it be too pathetic to crawl to Scott's place begging for some?_

_I'll wait and go to the pub; if I don't get anything then I'll sell myself to the first bloody dealer I find._

_October 1h ._

_I was kidnapped by that guy, for weeks. He is the most amazing lay I ever had. He's so bloody good with his dick that I don't care if he doesn't want to give me his dope. Because of course, he has tons of it._

_October 30th _

_People are going crazy with Halloween arrangements. And me? I'm still in this guy's house. Everything about him is disturbing. He's beautiful and rough. Thin but strong. Violent and kind. Aggressive but caring. He is a delinquent, a Mafia boss, a dealer, and at the same time a very Catholic man with very strict moral values. I don't know why is he allowing me in his house. Why he lets his brother talk to me or why he hasn't shot me in the head yet._

_Maybe because I'm a good cheap whore._

_Anyway, I promised to drop the dope and he promised to help me. That is what people do with their whores? What is this thing between us?_

_November 10th._

_I came home finally 'cause we fought. He insists on telling me that I'm nothing, that he doesn't trust me, that I shouldn't have the keys to his house. Because I'm a junkie not worthy of his trust. So, he's a gangster. Isn't that the same?_

_People enjoy having a person like me near, so they can feel better about themselves. Because an addict in comparison to anybody is a burden and a walking target._

_It is easy for everyone just to conclude that we are weak for consuming drugs, or just saying that we don't try hard enough to quit it. But they don't know what it is like fighting against yourself every day. In my case it started before the drugs. I was my own enemy way before trying pot. I've always been an underdog; the kind of guy nobody bothers to look twice at, or to say "sorry"to if they push. People just walk right beside me without noticing. I am not a loner because I wanted to be, but because I had no choice._

_Being an Englishman in New York is not easy; being gay in a public school is hard, but being me in this world was even harder. It's having a father who hates you 'cause his son is a pillow biter; is seeing a mother dying from cancer and leaving this world with so much sadness 'cause she can't protect her son in the world for being different. It's like a civil war in my own home, but worse. Because civil wars end at some point, and then comes the new regime and peace. But me? This war of mine never ends._

_I had some so-called friends anyway, they were always saying "He's gay, but he's nice...he's gay but he's so creative. He's smart and he writes so good even if he's a Nancy," and I smiled at them, 'cause I was nice to the world without asking the world to be nice to me._

_People point with their fingers, supposing. Just guessing what I've been doing, __because being gay tagged me immediately as __some nasty bug that liked to crawl in sex-basements__. Of course I felt fear at those hateful looks, but fear went away after receiving so m__any insults hurting me like knives__ and all those laughs behind my back. I have laughter's scars in my skin._

_They don't know that my manhood doesn't come from football, because they rejected me as a player thousands of times by laughing at me. My manhood I learned all these years while they mocked me for not knowing how to punch like a man, while they screamed "He's going down! He's going down!" And even then, I didn't go down, I didn't lose against them even if they knew how to hit like a man and I didn't. My manhood was accepting myself and my difference. I don't change for anything, for anyone. Least of all for them. _

_My manhood wasn't earned by going to the stadium or making a riot in the streets after a game. Football is another hidden manifestation of homosexuality; just like boxing, politics and beer. My manhood consisted of biting down against the mockery, eating the rage and resisting it all. I don't turn the other cheek for them to hit. I show my arse, and that is my revenge. (2)_

_November 18th_

_He came for me. Lovino...I think is the first time I am writing his name in this notebook. Now these pages will have the same scars that I have because of him. Lovino is not a name, but a spell. He is not a man either, but a demon, and I'm not his lover but his slave. _

_I was an addict before and now I'm even more dependent than I used to be._

_I'm clean of dope._

_I'm in love._

_And I am doomed._

_November 20th _

_I'm trying to write a letter to say to him what I'm unable to pronounce, but every time a word slips from my pencil I feel so exposed that I have to erase, burn or throw away the evidence. What a sodding coward. _

_November 22th_

_He was hurt by a gunshot. This is going to sound like the sappiest thing on earth, but I feel his pain like my own. I was about to give him the letter, but, at the end of the day, I backed down. This cowardice of mine could last for centuries. Will his attraction for me last that long?_

* * *

><p>And that was the last page written. And it mentioned a letter. So the envelope was for him after all. Lovino looked at it as if it was made of explosives. He didn't know what to expect from this message. He never knew what to expect from Arthur while he was there with him because he never really knew him. Now he had a whole new perspective of the man that was his lover, and he still didn't know what to expect. Or worse, he could more or less figure it out, and that was the scariest part.<p>

It was inevitable to think that this voice in this diary is Arthur, the genuine one. The one he never met and never asked for. This was the real man that his lover was hiding behind his encrypted words and sardonic smiles. _That_ Arthur must have felt very lonely in his bed while Lovino had insisted on using his shell for his own satisfaction, but even then, the Englishman remained there, waiting for him to see him. What a despicable beast he was. He deserved to be torturing himself like this.

"Man up," Lovino said to himself for encouragement, and opened the letter.

It was the same handwriting but it looked really elegant now. Not like the rough lines he wrote in the notebook. Lovino followed with his fingers every line, redrawing the path left by the ink, trying to guess every feeling behind the sentences. Had Arthur's hand trembled while writing certain words? He wished he knew, back then when Arthur was still there, the inner fight he had gone through while deciding to give him the letter or not. But now, thinking again about it, even if he had known, he probably would still have played the fool and pretended that he and Arthur had no relationship.

* * *

><p><em>Hi,<em>

_I was waiting to have a job and be economically independent before giving you this note. I would hate to be despised and then be left on my own. I know that sounds like I was a parasite. In some sense I was, at the beginning, or not? You gave me all the things that I wanted and in exchange you could do everything you wanted with me. I knew perfectly my place in your life, but after three months I believe I am in the position of questioning our relationship. (Because there is one, believe it or not.) I have to tell you this, even if I bleed along the way. This is tearing me, in its will to get out of my system and, at the same time, it is fighting to remain hidden where it is. How complicated, huh?_

_You have the power of dragging me from heaven to hell with just one word. You give me the strength to be a better man and just for that you are also my biggest weakness. Do you believe that I'm proud of being your slave? I'm not; but before you, I was nothing, so let me believe that I'm better, hanging on by your will. It's ironic, you rarely say something nice to me, but when you do you catch me in your coils__. Have you ever thought of yourself as a magician? I see you as one all the time._

_Before writing, many cultures relied on oral tradition, so words were important then. People used to think that every word had a soul in it and that it was alive. That's why magic rituals were performed through words, as if they were capable of transporting souls in every sound. Why am I telling you all this? I know is hard for you to believe in the power of words, but I do. That's why it's so hard for me to tell you. I cannot even put it on a paper. I'm afraid that if I verbalize this you would steal what is left of me._

_I picked out a CD to share with you, I think it has the message clearer than I could express. I always saw this album as a musical picture of myself. But the fourth song meant nothing to me until I realized what you mean to me. Now every time I hear it I think that before, I couldn't understand it because you didn't exist in my world, and I was just swimming lost. _

_Enough of this babble. Just listen._

_PS: If after hearing this, you still want to see me, come to see me at the library. I WON'T go to your house if you don't come to me first to tell me clearly what you think about this. _

* * *

><p>Then the Italian couldn't wait any longer and, with his hands trembling, put on the record. Lovino jumped to the fourth track and sat jittering in his anxiety. The guitar twang was very familiar, but as he wasn't a fan of the band he didn't know the lyrics, so he didn't know what to expect from this. So he waited and listened – which was very weird 'cause he wasn't the kind of person that waited in silence for something - and then. He heard it. Like a gunshot.<p>

"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,

year after year,

running over the same old ground. What have we found?

The same old fears,

wish you were here." (3)

Lovino moved his hands to cover his face. Shocked. This is what Arthur meant with "words can do more harm than a bullet"? He felt the damage. Now he understood what Arthur was trying to say to him. God knows how long the blond had felt like this, and Lovino had never wanted to see it.

* * *

><p>"Lovino, what are you doing?" asked Antonio, speaking for the three Latins. Martín looked so afflicted, almost like he wanted to start one of his well-known dramas. Even Manuel was looking at him with a funny face.<p>

The Italian tried to recover his composure and answered, "Counting my fucking money so I can pay your big fat salaries, which, by the way, you don't deserve."

"I'm not asking that, and you know it," the Spaniard insisted. Martin now was a caricature of a worried man.

Lovino decided to be a little honest. "I'm waiting till the bastard gets tired of this nonsense and comes back by himself. You know that saying..."

"The one who goes without being kicked out, comes back without being called," Manuel pointed out. Lovino nodded, satisfied with his employee.

"Anyway, you know you can ask us to help you with this anytime," Antonio reminded him. "If you ask us to search for him, we'll do it without question."

"You know we would do anything to solve any problem of yours, boss," Martín added, even if he hated that British bastard and thought it was better without him around.

"Well if you insist that much, then go after him and bring him back to this house," Lovino stated, trying to sound casual. But everyone in that room knew that this was an order covered with false indifference.

For several weeks it seemed like the main task of the gang was to determine the whereabouts of the blond, hunt down his white ass, and bring it back to Lovino's bed/arms. But it seemed like the earth had just swallowed him. He was nowhere, and that was a lot to say, because Manuel was a professional delinquent in so many fields and he had lots of ways to get information and find people. Three weeks passed and Lovino re-read the diary, and then the letter, and then put the CDs on. Antonio knew him like he was his father and he was perfectly aware that his young friend was going slightly mad.

The whole case found its boiling point when they found a note in the front door of the Vargas residence. They didn't need to be geniuses to know that it came from Akil's gang. Lovino thought this was a good idea to get a distraction from all this sentimental drama. He opened, laughing in advance of all the stupid shit that message could contain. But, when he started to read he had to sit.

Antonio took the piece of paper and read it at loud. "So, we heard you lost your English bitch. Pray you find him first. Because if we do, we don't know what could happen to him."

The Italian remained silent a moment but all the feelings he had been accumulating for almost a month exploded in a furious scream. "I'm going to kill those bastards!" He then hit his desk, in a rage attempt, throwing all his papers and his laptop to the floor , while claiming "Nero cazzo, figlio di putana, stronzo di merda! Io vado a ucciderli tutti!"(4)

"No, you won't, because until we know if Arthur is dead or alive we must wait!" Antonio recommended, yelling, sounding almost as he was giving an order. Lovino let himself fall in the chair and he looked so broken, almost like he was about to cry, and maybe he would do that later when those bastards were out. 'Cause Mafia studs don't cry, but if they do, they hide the hell in their rooms to do it.

* * *

><p>When Lovino finally agreed to go to his room, accompanied by Antonio, the Latins sat in the living room in the middle of a funereal atmosphere. Manuel lit a cigarette to calm himself down, and to think. He turned around to look at his Argentinean friend, expecting to hear some whining or see a theatrical expression. Instead of that, he just found the blond absorbed in his thoughts. That was beyond bizarre; he approached him trying to disturb him, just because he liked to see his frightened sissy face.<p>

Martín caught him in his attempt to scare him, but he didn't make a scandal of it. Manuel, puzzled by all this behavior, grabbed him by his shoulders to face him. He always was so annoyed by those cheery hazel eyes, but now the blonde was so different. Somehow mature.

"Ché, the boss is having a hell of a time," he stated, serious.

"Well, he cares about this guy, that's why we have to keep looking for him," the Chilean said.

Martín shook his head. "We are not going to find him here. I try to put myself in his situation and I think...What would I do if I find out that you had been with a random girl after all the time that I waited for you?" Manuel abruptly pushed him away, but the Argentinean didn't even flinch and carried on, "I would go as far as I could to forget about you and about the pain."

"I warn you, stop this faggy act or I'll cut you," Manuel barked, but Martín ignored him, as usual.

"So I'll go out of the state to look." The Chilean stared at him in disbelief as the blond put on his jacket and went out of the house. Manuel followed him out just to prove that the fag had no guts to go out of the state all by himself to search for a British guy that he hated. But Martín climbed into his old car and went away without a bigger explanation and the brunet knew that was it. Because Martín was like a faithful dog when it came to the family. So he lit another cigarette and sat, thinking that this was going to be a long waiting.

* * *

><p>(1)"Mile End" by the British band 'Pulp' is a song that tells the story about a group of guys moving to a messy place. Here you have a fragment.<p>

"the living-room was full of flies, / the kitchen sink was blocked,  
>the bathroom sink not there at all.  Ooh, / it's a mess alright, / yes it's  
>Mile End.  And now we're living in the sky! / I'd never thought I'd live so  
>high,  just like Heaven / (if it didn't look like Hell.)  
>The lift is always full of piss,  the fifth floor landing smells of fish  
>(not just on Friday,  every single other day.)"

(2) Arthur's diary is based on Pedro Lemebel's poem "Manifiesto (Hablo por mi diferencia)" (Manifest - I Speak for My Difference). Probably you have never heard of him. He's a transvestite Chilean poet and novelist; he writes about his condition and about being poor. I thought that it would be a nice voice for this underdog Arthur so I translated and adapted to this situation some of his ideas.

(3) This is a fragment of "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. I think that song could crack even the coldest heart.

(4) "Shitty black son of a bitch, piece of shit, I'm gonna kill them all!"


	6. Capitolo de gli incontri e la soluzioni

**Note:** First of all, I'm so, SO sorry for taking so long. I don't have an excuse besides the University and the thesis. I've been writing in Spanish - because it is easier for me – and I kicked this story to my holidays, I needed time to concentrate in this. I've been writing this for more than two months (I think... what a lazy person...) so I hope you enjoy it.

And as usual I have to thank to Blood Dark Sun for helping me editing this, and for her wonderful stories.

And of course all my loving to July, my lil Argentinean sis. Martín is cool, 'cause you are cool gurl!

* * *

><p><em>I am the passenger <em>_  
><em>_And I ride and I ride__  
><em>_I ride through the city's backsides__  
><em>_I see the stars come out of the sky__  
><em>_Yeah, they're bright in a hollow sky__  
><em>_You know it looks so good tonight  
>(<em>"The Passenger" by Iggy Pop and Ricky Gardine)

**Capitolo de gli incontri e la soluzioni**

Manuel was tired of watching his lighter while he played with it. The club was busy, but the clients didn't seem very willing to buy his merchandise. If he was Martín, he would approach some boys or girls, he would talk and joke around with them and then he would ask, very casually; "Hey, would you like some dope? I know this guy who could get us some..." And people would agree, 'cause nobody ever denied a thing when he was smiling and exaggerating his accent to be even more charming. But he was not that idiot. He wasn't sociable, or nice; so he stood there waiting for the people to recognize him as a dealer and buy some shit.

He got angry with himself, and then got angrier with the Argentinean faggot for disappearing and leaving all the work to him. It had been a week now! Where the hell was he anyway? Maybe he was just on some party-road-trip. Surely he was looking for Arthur... come on! Manuel forced himself to not think about the faggot anymore, drank a Cuba libre – _Ron-cola _as he called it – and then walked to a table occupied with a bunch of students. They surely would want to buy something.

000

Lovino was in his office when he heard the door being opened. He was no longer running to see who it was, 'cause he knew that it wasn't Martín telling him he'd found Arthur. He would rather to think the worst. Arthur must be dead; maybe his body was already buried somewhere in the US or sent to England. And that certainty came to his mind because now Arthur was to him like a ghost. A presence that always followed him, tormented him. He hardly could do anything without the memory of the English coming into his mind. Lovino thought that was his penance for doing what he did: selling drugs, killing, lying, being inappropriate and – what was worst – not regretting. Because if he could do everything again he would choose to sell drugs, to meet Arthur and be with him again. Maybe he would change the end of the story. Would God let him do that?

The Italian 'capo' was distracted by the sound of what seemed to be his brother whining. He sighed, wondering what 'tragedy' could possibly have happened to that cowardly and sensitive bastard to make him cry for the billionth time.

"What the fuck now?" Lovino asked.

"Veee~ vee~ they robbed me, fratello, they took everything, my brushes, spatulas, my paintings... my sketches were in that bag too, vee~"

The older brother hid his concern and asked, roughly, "And who was it? It was a Cuban guy? Someone from the neighborhood? A white guy? It was just a pair or a gang?... It wasn't a girl's gang, right?"

"No, no, there were three, and they were black, and very tall, they yelled at me, they pushed me and I was so scared... veee~"

"Black, you said?" Lovino tried to stay calm, but he knew who was to blame and why they did it. They weren't interested in the money; they just wanted to mess with his people, with him. "And did they hurt you?" he asked again.

"No," Feliciano denied - "They just pushed me and surrounded me, they were so big, fratello, vee~"

Lovino wanted to smack him for being such a girl. But instead he just put an arm around him to calm him down. Since Arthur had left he wasn't the same. "Hush, ok... at least nothing happened to you... it'll be alright."

"But they stole my drawings... and my painting supplies."

"We'll get you new things, ok? Now shut up!"

The younger brother whined a bit more and then went to his room to call his boyfriend. Lovino knew he would, and that was when he got the idea. He waited until he knew his brother was not talking with the macho potato and then called him. Ludwig seemed surprised to hear him and even more when the Italian ordered:

"Let's lunch together tomorrow at the Kimberly hotel, I have something important to talk to you about." They both knew the German didn't want to meet him, but he agreed anyway, promising to be there at 1pm.

000

The German doctor watches his clock, indicating that it is almost time. As the 'businessman' he is, Lovino gets there on time and walks towards his table. The atmosphere is tense, but they greet each other in a formal and pacific way. Ludwig is curious. He is almost sure that this has nothing to do with the wounded leg. Lovino seems almost completely healed as he walks, no hobbling at all. Maybe he has another wounded man. Maybe he wants to hire him as the family doctor. The blond scraps the idea immediately; Lovino wouldn't want to have anything to do with a... "potato bastard" as he liked to call the German people.

Lovino looks in his mind for an easy way to say what he wants to say, but then decides it is not necessary.

"Feliciano is in danger," he started, almost causing a heart attack for Ludwig, who stared at him in disbelief, trying to get more information. Lovino lowered his voice as he explained, "The other gang is trying to get a little revenge for a thing that I've done and they sent a bunch of robbers to scare him and to scare me."

"He told me he was assaulted yesterday, but I didn't think it was because of you. I thought this kind of things happened a lot in your neighborhood."

"And they happen... but I know every fucking thief in Brooklyn, all of them Latins, and these guys are not from here. They were from the North side," the Italian mumbled.

"Afroamericans live everywhere," argued Ludwig, trying to be reasonable.

"Yeah, I know, dammit, but, a group of three huge black men attacking a little Italian boy just to rob his painting supplies? Come on..."

"Well, if you put it that way, you might be right."

"Fuck, of course I am."

The waitress approached to them to take their order. Ludwig asked for a plate of mashed potatoes with pork meat, which disgusted the Italian, who just asked for a plate of Lasagna.

"So...why are you telling me this?" the German asked, almost guessing where this was going.

"I want you to take my brother out of the city...Go to Paris with him," Lovino answered lightly as he drank a bit of water.

"What? Paris? Why Paris?"

"Because my stupid assistant bought the tickets and she liked the idea of Feli going to Paris," Lovino answered, wondering himself why he hadn't fired Elizabeta yet. "And because we have to make him believe that this is just a random vacation I want to give him."

"So, it is not just temporary," Ludwig said, trying to get a confirmation.

"I wouldn't want to see him back here. It is too dangerous...besides, he can continue his studies there. Paris has good art schools."

Ludwig nods, understanding.

"You don't want us to come back, do you?"

"No...you can't. It is better if you stay away from all this. So you better find a job in a hospital or whatever you doctors do for a living." The waitress finally came to serve the food. For minutes, the only sound at the table was the sound produced by the friction of the cutlery on the plates. At some point Lovino got tired of the silence and added, "The only reason I am talking like this to you is because I don't want my fratello to be alone in Europe; and he feels for you, so you better take good care of him or..."

"I understand. I will take care of him."

After that the only thing left was telling Feliciano, and Lovino did it during dinner that night. He felt a bit miserable, like he was trying to fool a little kid, as he said to him:

"Remember you wanted to go to Paris to paint and to see the Louvre? Well, next week you'll go with your stupid boyfriend. Take it as a gift for being such a good boy."

The younger of the Vargas brothers almost choked on a piece of meat. Antonio, by his side, patted his back to help him and smiled nervously at his friend. He was implying with that gesture the phrase 'Are you finally insane?'

"Really?... Lovi, really?"

"Do I look like I'm fucking lying? Of course it's true... so start deciding what are you taking with you, and once there you can buy your painting shit again"

Feliciano jumped from the seat to hug his brother, saying really fast, "ThankyouThankyou!Youarethebest!"

000

"So this is what are we going to do," Lovino said to his subordinates Manuel, Antonio, and Elizabeta. "We're going to blow Akil's cellar with all his merchandise and we are going to get out of here."

"Really? So you decided? And what about the others?" Antonio asked.

"Akil doesn't know about the other sellers. He knows about the three of you and the sissy bastard." Lovino tried to forget the reason why Martín wasn't in the 'meeting.' "The next time he calls, say to him that I demand him to come back, so we can start our operation... I have decided to go to Europe, and Tonio is coming too, but I don't know about your plans."

"I don't wanna go out of the US," Manuel protested "I like being here."

"I like this city too," Eliza argued, trying to look fierce. "I wanted to move to Manhattan... having an apartment next to the theatres and..."

"Well you won't, because it's too fucking dangerous, and believe it or not, you are a woman, and those bastards could attack you and do horrible things to you, so _no_, missy!" Lovino shouted at her, trying to appear menacing.

"May I remind you that you send me to sell your shit by myself. I can deal with danger." Elizabeta was starting to sound like a street fighter and Antonio was just about to say something to her to calm her down.

"Really? 'Cause I remember sending you to the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, so I don't think you faced a real danger."

"Don't you dare speak me like that, Vargas!" The woman raised her voice and Lovino was about to yell a bunch of atrocities. But the words stuck, trapped in his mouth, as he saw the man standing in the doorframe of his office.

It was Martín, and by his side, looking embarrassed, was Arthur. The Italian was petrified; he thought it was another of his hallucinations; one so strong that it was projected out of his head for everybody to see it.

"_Eh bueno_... let's go outside," Antonio suggested, pushing Elizabeta out, who insisted on 'wanting to see the reconciliation.'

Once everyone else was out Arthur finally dared to look at the man in front of him. Their eyes met just like the time they saw each other for the first time. It was like another shot of adrenalin right to the English heart. And Lovino felt it too. He walked towards him, slowly, fearing that if he moved too fast this hallucination would disappear. Arthur didn't say a word. He thought it wasn't his time to talk. He needed to hear an apology, an explanation, anything that could prove Lovino had missed him and he had not committed a folly returning to New York.

The Italian is really close to him and suddenly is hugging him, very tight, very strongly; then is caressing his face carefully and kissing both of his cheeks, saying "_Caro mio_," and he doesn't know if the English understood what he meant by that, but anyway, Arthur put his arms around his neck to kiss him and, with that contact, Lovino knows this is not a ghost; this is the real Arthur with his pierced tongue, his playful sensuality and that scent so his; Lovino missed that scent so much.

"Anything else you wanted to say?" The blond asked with a low voice, still rubbing Lovino's lips.

"Please, forgive me; I was such a fool, I didn't know... fuck! I just... I love you, dammit."

And that flustered confession worked as a miracle. 'Cause Arthur was smiling at him. Like he was always there. Like his long absence had just been a nightmare.

000

The Argentinian was very full of himself in almost every aspect. He knew he was handsome, charming, competent and astute. So he was sure when he left Connecticut and the other cities he passed by, that if he hadn't found the Brit there, it was because he wasn't there. At the time he arrived in Boston it had been almost a month of searching. He knew, somehow, that Arthur wasn't dead; Manuel told him the last time they spoke that it was stupid to have faith, but he was optimistic because it was part of his character. So Martín searched for libraries or book stores asking for Arthur Kirkland; he tried to put on that ridiculous accent and everything to pretend he was a brother, cousin or any relative.

A man – after almost two hours calling to different places – finally told him, "I don't have any British workers, but in the book store across the street there is one..."

When Martín arrived he paid attention to the people who entered; students, some hippies. The guy at the counter wasn't Arthur, but a silly young man with glasses, blue eyes and a strange curl rising from his golden hair. He thought maybe this was the Brit until he heard him speaking with the Yankee-est accent he ever heard. The Argentinean thought he would wait a little and see if there was another employee. After twenty minutes, in which he pretended to read several old books, hidden behind a bookshelf, somebody else came in.

"Artie! You came earlier!"

The Argentinean almost dropped the text he was holding and looked through the gap between the books.

"I had nothing better to do..." The newcomer had a strong British accent; the voice was just as he remembered. He only could see the back of the blond man standing with a long grey coat, but as he took it off, and showed his "Pink Floyd" t-shirt, there was no doubt.

"Me neither, so look! I'm reading what you told me!" the American said happily, showing him.

"Oh... I see."

Martín rolled his eyes, begging to the Lord this idiot wasn't Arthur's new boyfriend. Well, if he was, the poor guy would have an accident. The Latin smiled at his own wickedness, remembering how often Manuel lectured him for being "such a gangster."

"And? What do you think?"

"Well, it's longer than I expected... but in a good way."

"The three laws of robotics came from that novel, and lots of the movies you like so much came from Asimov's books...When you finish this one you should go for..." The Brit walked to one of the shelves, not paying attention to the Argentinean standing a few a meters away. "This one, Bradbury."

"'The Martian Chronicles?'... It's about aliens?"

"Yes... and no... you should read it and find out."

Martín finally got sick of the conversation between the two Anglophones and showed up from behind the shelves. Arthur paled as he saw the Latin in front of him.

"We have to talk," Martín said, trying to sound authoritarian, like his boss had taught him.

"I... we... no, we don't have anything to talk about."

"Is something wrong, Artie?" asked the other guy, looking at them, worried. Martín put his hands in one of the pockets of his jacket, just to suggest he was carrying a gun. The Brit understood and tried to keep calm.

"No, no, Alfred, give us a minute." Arthur made a signal to the Latin to make him go outside. Once there he snorted, "Ok, be quick."

"Why the rush, _inglesito?,_ No, no, we are going to the coffee shop around the corner and you are going to hear everything I have to say."

Arthur sighed, tired, as he followed the blond, who was monopolizing the conversation, as usual.

"Well, I don't like this place so much. They don't have _yerba mate_ here, and it looks too poor and intellectual... you know? I hate those kind of things." Arthur felt the indirect insult, and showed his anger as best he could with his face. Martín ignored his discomfort and sat near the window. "Anyway... I'm not here for me, but for the boss."

At that mention, Arthur jumped and tried to remain calm. "I can try to return you the money, I can ask for a loan from a friend, but please, don't cause me any trouble."

Martín looked at him in disbelief. "Do you really think I came all the way here just for the paltry amount of money you could get from the dope you stole from us?"

"Yes, I think so, and if it is not that, I don't know what to think."

"He thought _you were dead,_" Martín said expecting to be clear without betraying his boss that much.

"Oh...I get it, so he felt guilty, like the good Christian he is, so he sent you to find me. Well, tell him I'm alive, that in fact I have no intention of bloody killing myself because of him."

"God! You are exhausting!" At that, Arthur felt more offended so he stood up to go. "No," the Argentinean growled, and then said seductively to the waitress, "You, two lattes, please... and you, don't you dare to go before we finish." Arthur dropped himself into the chair, reluctantly.

"Good." Martín looked for the right words to say. If this was Manuel, he would say without a problem what he feels; he wasn't a man who feared or was ashamed of his feelings. But Lovino was, and he respected him, he cared for him, so he would not expose his boss like that. The English bastard, on the other hand, was not being cooperative; he was distrustful and hurt. He had the right to be, and yet Martín needed to drive home his point. There was no way to be subtle, then. "He misses you," Martín started, just when the waitress came with the beverages. She placed them on the table and went quickly, surely thinking this was a gay lovers' spat. "It's you he wants back, not the money, you might believe it or not... and I think you want him back just as much, so..."

Arthur looked nervous now. He took the cup, just to do something, and took a sip of the latte. A disgusted grimace settled on his face and Martín asked.

"Come on! You can't be that rancorous!"

"It's not Lovino! It's the sodding coffee! Blast! I hate coffee."

A silence settled between both men. Martín drank the whole cup, quickly, before asking, "So, you are not mad at him..."

"Of course I am! He bloody betrayed me! What would you do if you were me? You can't not blame me for running away and not wanting to see him."

"Ok, I can't... I would have gone nuts, I would probably have shot the guy who dared to cheat on me." Arthur blinked in surprise. For a moment, both men looked at each other's eyes and they could reach a state of understanding, a very brief one, before the Latin continued, "but really, if I were you, I would prefer to follow what makes me happy, because pride is the worst thing that can happen to a man."

"Pride is a character feature, not something that happens."

"I know, but terrible things happen because of a man's pride."

Arthur looked to the rest of his beverage, like he was debating whether he would drink the rest, knowing it might be unpleasant. Or should he just let it go to waste? His whole life has been about waste. Wasting his time, wasting his intelligence, his money; being wasted... He didn't have a lot now, but he didn't want to waste it like it didn't matter. Like _he_ didn't matter.

"Do you know how difficult was for me to find a job here? A place to live? To buy the few things I have..." He should add 'keeping myself clean,' but they both knew that, so it remained in the air, like so many other things they didn't speak of right then.

"Ché, look, _inglesito. _You know I can't stand you. You are too weak and too insignificant for my boss, but he loves you, in fact, he does it so much that he is driving himself crazy so... you can come back with me by fair means or we can do it the hard way, me dragging your white ass all the way back to New York."

"You are unfair," the English complained.

"I follow what I believe is fair...and what... Are you going to tell me you prefer this? Staying here? Don't you miss him? Don't you want to see him again?"

000

Arthur bit his lip in a vacillating gesture. This wanker was right and he hated it. In fact, when he saw him in the book store, a pathetic part of him wanted Martín to tell him what he did. He wished so deeply for Lovino to appear in Boston, chasing him and telling him he was sorry. This was not Lovino, he was somehow disappointed in that, but, he gave a second thought to it. Martín wasn't here for his own reasons. Lovino had to send him. And Arthur wanted to go back to New York so badly that he felt he was a traitor to himself. On the other hand, Martín was such a rude cunt. He just came here and expected him to follow his orders like he was a member of that sodding mafia. Just because of that, for his pride, he wanted to decline the offer and face any consequence; but, as usual, his pride was always left aside when it came to Lovino. Always Lovino, the stumbling block.

Maybe he was a stumbling block for the Italian too.

"So...when do we leave?"

And almost two days have passed and now he was there, in Brooklyn, in the Vargas residence, in the office, with the man who owned every single one of his thoughts.

_Lovino is not a name, but a spell_. He had written that, and it was so right.

"I love you..." Lovino said, so grave, like he was dying just for letting that drop out of his mouth. Luckily, Arthur was hugging him, strongly, to prevent him from falling.

"I love you, too," the Englishman answered, and he felt the weakness too. He felt how, saying those three words, a part of him was ragged and exposed so crudely. His raw guts offered to the beast. And he was not a trusting soul, but he needed so hard to trust Lovino that he simply decided to surrender to what was to come. At least he knew that he would not survive to live the agony of a second hit. That was his consolation.

"So...what did you do with the heroin you stole from me? I was thinking all this time you were aiming to kill yourself with it."

"Well, that was the original idea, indeed."

"Such a dramatic fucker."

"Shut up!" Arthur laughed while caressing the Italian's cheeks. "That was the idea, but then I remembered you, and the promise I made of not doing more heroin...So I sold the shit to afford my trip."

"Bastard!"

"You might think it is absurd, but even when I felt betrayed by you, I still had the need to honor my promise... words are important to me; if you have my word I'll respect it, because if I don't honor my own sayings, who will?"

"I would if you let me." Arthur looked at him, confused. Lovino coughed, trying to get some courage. "I know I screwed it up. I betrayed you... it felt like cheating to me at least."

"Because of the adventurous feeling?"

"No, dammit! Because of the guilt!.. and fuck! Let me finish." Arthur took a step away and remained in front of him. "What I'm trying to say is that now, I'm ready to give _you_ _my_ word... when I thought you were dead... just to imagine that... I thought I was going insane."

Arthur leaned back and sat on the corner of the desk looking at the Italian with a rare mix of worry and amusement on his face.

"This is a love declaration? Because if it is, you are terrible at it." Lovino felt his heart sink at that. Arthur noticed, enjoying his little revenge, and added, "But I don't care how awful are you with words, as long as you are mine."

Lovino wanted to say he was. But, as the Brit said, he was bad with words, so he tried a gesture. He ran his finger over his face to kiss him gently. Arthur smiled in understanding, even when he couldn't guess all the plans going in his lover's head. The Italian took his hand to guide him to the bedroom.

Once there he turned on the lights and regulated the intensity. In the half-light, Arthur looked golden, handsome, as an apparition. Arthur began to unbutton his jacket but the brunet stopped him "Let me," he asked, carefully pulling out the garment, smiling at the sight of the t-shirt. "You bought another one."

"It's my favorite band," Arthur answered, smiling. The shirt was out too and Lovino had space to kiss his stomach, going under. The English fell on the bed, surrendering to the sensations. The Italian unbuttoned the trousers, pulled them down and stayed there, fascinated with the hardness marked in the fabric of the last piece of clothing. Arthur froze. He didn't expect the next move. Lovino never was a fan of the male anatomy. He always avoided that special zone of his. So, when he felt the warm humidity of Lovino's tongue around him he had to refrain himself from screaming. It was pretty awkward at first. Arthur didn't want to boss him this time telling him how to do it. Instead he just moaned more or less according to how good the stimulus was. The Italian wasn't an expert in that maneuver, but he certainly knew how to read the reactions of a lover, especially Arthur's.

He didn't want Arthur to come yet, so he stopped at the right moment. The Brit growled in frustration. The surprises weren't over yet. Lovino looked in his nightstand drawer and handed the condom to the blond. He started to undress himself and Arthur looked confused. Lovino lay by his side, kissed him and settled under the blonde's body, trying to imply what he wanted.

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

"Yes... I want you... this way..."

"I don't need you to do this to prove anything."

"I know...but I need it."

And Lovino didn't regret it. Arthur was an incredibly thoughtful lover. He prepared him properly, kissing him, setting a nice pace for both of them, touching the right spots to make everything perfect. And Lovino knew then that this wasn't a mistake. This couldn't be wrong. And if it was, then the world and God were crazy.

000

The next morning, when Arthur stood up and went to the kitchen to make some tea, he found the gang arguing again. Lovino was saying instructions to his four friends. When Arthur enter to the kitchen they shut up all of a sudden, making everything so obvious.

"So...this is how the mafia plans a revenge... fascinating." The Brit's comments were as mild as if he were talking about the weather. Manuel snorted a laugh and asked the Brit for a cup of tea. "Don't mind me here, pretend that I'm invisible," Arthur added while measuring the leaves to add to the teapot. Lovino, at the sight of his lover, was reminded of last night and a red shadow spread over his face like a plague. Antonio smirked at Martín, who made a vulgar gesture that imitated a penetration. Eliza smiled so much that it was scary and Lovino had to go on with the instructions; just to change the current subject of attention.

"Manuel is going first to see what is going on, then when he gives a signal, we go to install the bomb. I know how to do it, so..."

"I don't wanna be waiting in the car," Elizabeta whined. "It's too boring, please let _me_ go, and Antonio can wait for us..."

"You'll stay in the fucking car 'cause I fucking say it, dammit!" Lovino shouted to the woman, who looked to the other men in the room trying to get some support. Nobody wanted to contradict Lovino, so she had to stay calm and quiet.

"I know I said you could ignore me... but, what in the bleeding hell are you planning? Suicide?" Everybody looked at Arthur now while the kettle was starting to get hot.

"It's not suicidal, we've always been stronger than them," Lovino assured him.

"That's true... but they've always played dirtier," Antonio reminded him.

Nobody said a word at that. Lovino seemed like a little kid being lectured by his teacher. The kettle boiled finally and the English added the water to the teapot. He sat by his lover's side and took his hand.

"Look, this revenge is not necessary... you don't have to get your hands dirty with their blood to prove yourself you are a man."

"I know..."

"But they messed with the family," Martín explained. Everybody else nodded at that.

They understood the concept. "Family." It was a buried word for Arthur, filled with bittersweet memories about his mother, his childhood, his father...Now, thanks to Lovino it was reborn as a new – non-blood relative – term. He tried to understand it anyway and said: "Well then...if they mess with you and your family then it's my problem too. I want to participate."

The Italian didn't want Arthur to get involved in this, but somehow he was right. He was part of the family now.

With Arthur there, they cooled down and decided just to blow the cellar with the dope. It was violent, but as the English assured them, it wasn't a crime because nobody had to die, it was an ultimate attack to the enemy and the drugs. A way to clean their consciences before they left.

That day, Elizabeta stayed in the car. Martín and Arthur stayed on two different corners watching the surroundings; Arthur was nervous, feeling the adrenaline of the adventure with a gun burning inside his jacket. Manuel went to look near the cellar and Lovino with Antonio went behind him to install the bomb while making sure nobody was in the place. There were at least four guys and, as a distraction, Manuel threw a noise bomb to distract them.

Gliding through the darkness, Lovino and his gang took advantage of the scandal to run into the car and activate the explosive. From the back window of the black Audi, Arthur could see how the cellar of the enemy gang flew into pieces. He knew it was foolish to expect that there were no injured from that attack; he hoped there was nobody dead . However, the fate of the other gang was unimportant to him. Now the only thing they had to worry about was to get to the heliport before midnight. A new life was waiting for them in Sicily.

000

Ps: The end? This is a good ending point, so let's say it is. I will try (really) to write the happy epilogue, I want to give a proper closure to every character, so stay tuned.


End file.
